5 


ADAM 
AND  CAROLINE 

Being  the  Sequel  to  Adam  of  Dubhn 
by 

CONAL  O'RIORDAN 


Aaw'd  6e  6  fiaoifev(  iytvvriat  rbv  ZoAoyudiva  en  TIJS  TOV  Oitpiov 


NEW  YORK 
HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ22,  BY 
HARCOURT,   BRACK  AND  COMPANY,   INC. 


RAHWAY,     N.     J 


TO 
FRANCIS  R.  PRYOR 

MY  FRIEND  AND  ASSOCIATE  IN 
A  GREAT  ENTERPRISE 


206O578 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  ADAM  LISTENS  TO  THE  BELLS       .          .         >.       • .  3 

II.  BUYING   A    BICYCLE          .          ..         .         ...         >.         .  9 

III.  ADAM   LEARNS  TO   BICYCLE    .          .          .         ...          .  l6 

IV.  THE    NAKED   TRUTH         ....;...  23 

V.  PIETY 3O 

VI.  FATHER    IGNATIUS    STEELE 37 

VII.  THE   MARCHESA   STARTLES   FATHER   STEELE         .  45 

VIII.  ADAM   LOOKS  BACKWARDS 53 

IX.  THE  MARCHESA  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT    .          .         •.  6l 

X.  GOING  TO    SCHOOL .69 

XI.  CLONGOWES   WOOD   COLLEGE            ....  79 

XII.  ADAM    IS   BIDDEN   TO   KEEP  THE  FAITH        .          .  86 

xiii.  FATHER  CLARE'S  SURPRISING  OBSERVATION       .  95 

XIV.  ADAM  IS  ADVISED  NOT  TO  DISCUSS  HIS  MOTHER  IO4 

XV.  HOME  FOR   THE    HOLIDAYS 112 

XVI.  MR.    MACARTHY   LIES    IN    BED        .          .          .          .121 

XVII.  MORE  OF  SIR  DAVID  BYRON-QUINN      .          .          •  I3I 

XVIII.  OF  A   CHRISTMAS   PRESENT 140 

XIX.  THE  WITCHING  HOUR    .......  149 

XX.  OF   DEATH    AND    BURIAL          ......  l6l 

XXI.  ADAM   IS  ADVISED  TO  READ  THE  BIBLE       .          .170 

XXII.  FATHER  STEELE*S  VICTORY 179 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXIII.  OF  FLIGHT  AND  A  DAMSEL   IN   DISTRESS         .  1 88 

XXIV.  THE   MIRACLE  OF   THE  TRAMS  .          .          .  199 

XXV.  JOSEPHINE    PUTS    HER    HAIR    UP      .          .          .  2O7 

XXVI.  APPROACHING  THE   RUBICON    ....  2l6 

XXVII.  VISITORS    FOR    MRS.    MACFADDEN       .          .          .  223 

xxvui.  LOVERS'  MEETING     ......  229 

XXIX.  THE  BRINK  OF  THE  RUBICON  ....  238 

XXX.  THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  ....  250 

XXXI.  ON  THE  EVE 256 

XXXII.  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RUBICON  .  .  .  264 

XXXIII.  ON  THE  FURTHER  SHORE  ....  277 

XXXIV.  MR.  MACARTHY  ON  CAROLINE  .  .  .  290 

XXXV.  GROWING  UP 295 

XXXVI.  OF  A  TOMBSTONE 307 

xxxvii.  MRS.  LEAPER-CARAHAR'S  AT  HOME       .       .  313 

XXXVIII.  MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY          .          .          .  324 

XXXIX.  VIEWS  DIFFER   AND   FOG  RISES  .          .          .  343 

XL.  THE    WATERS   THAT   DROWNED   FAN    TWEEDY  357 


ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 


CHAPTER  I 
ADAM  LISTENS  TO  THE  BELLS 

ON  the  early  morning  of  his  thirteenth  birthday,  a  boy  was 
wakened  from  his  dreams  of  the  night  by  the  bells  of  St. 
George's  Church,  Dublin,  ringing  four;  and  as  he  lazily 
noticed  dawn  breaking  across  the  church  spire,  conjured  up 
dreams  of  the  day  to  come,  full  of  the  importance  of  one 
entering  upon  his  teens.  From  under  his  pillow  he  drew  a 
document  constituting  legal  evidence  that  he  had  been  born 
in  Dublin  as  the  sun  was  entering  Taurus  in  one  of  the  last 
years  of  the  last  century,  and  baptized  at  the  Pro-Cathedral, 
that  being  his  parish  church,  ere  the  month  was  out.  His 
father's  name  was  given  as  Malachy  Macfadden  and  his 
own  as  Adam  Byron  O'Toole  Dudley  Wyndham  Innocent; 
a  long,  strong,  and  proud  name  for  one  so  unpretentiously 
begotten.  His  sponsors  were  a  Miss  or  Mrs.  Emily  Robin- 
son, since,  even  as  Mr.  Malachy  Macfadden  himself,  de- 
ceased, and  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole,  who,  still  very  much  alive, 
had  been  appointed  by  the  widow  his  legal  guardian,  to- 
gether with  Stephen  Macarthy,  Esquire,  of  Mountjoy 
Square,  and  Turlough  O'Meagher  Leas-ridere,  of  Capua 
Terrace,  Sandycove.  .  .  .  What  mainly  interested  him  in 
his  Baptismal  Certificate  (procured  for  the  purposes  of  the 
Intermediate  Examination  when  at  the  Jesuit  College  in  the 
house  called  by  Luke  Gardiner,  first  Lord  Mountjoy  of  the 
last  creation,  who  had  built  it  for  his  own  use  in  the  reign 
of  George  III.,  Belvedere)  was  the  statement  of  his  age. 
Yesterday  he  was  a  child  .  .  .  but  to-day  he  was  a  man, 
going  to  be  a  man  quite  shortly.  .  .  .  Great  things  begin 
to  happen  to  you  once  you  enter  your  teens.  .  .  .  What 

3 


4  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

was  the  long  word  that  Mr.  Macarthy  said  Herr  Behre  mis- 
pronounced .  .  .  ?  Adolescence  ...  in  German  Jugend. 
.  .  .  Adam  was  beginning  to  learn  German.  ...  It  was 
not  as  interesting  as  French,  or  at  least  it  was  not  as  easy, 
but  somehow  he  liked  German :  perhaps  that  was  because 
he  liked  Herr  Behre.  .  .  .  Herr  Behre  was  a  kind  man, 
though  he  had  queer  notions  about  pictures,  and  he  was  not 
so  wise  as  Mr.  Macarthy.  .  .  .  Mr.  Macarthy  said  adoles- 
cence meant  more  than  the  German  word  Jugend.  .  .  . 
The  meaning  of  words  was  very  queer.  .  .  .  Mr.  Macarthy 
said  that  the  meaning  of  a  word  was  conveyed  by  the  tone 
of  voice  in  which  it  was  said  .  .  .  and  yet  Mr.  Macarthy 
had  thousands  of  books,  to  which  he  seemed  to  pay  more 
attention  than  to  the  voices  of  his  friends.  Mr.  Macarthy 
was  a  queer  old  fellow.  He  did  not  like  him  as  much  as  he 
had  liked  Father  Innocent  Feeley;  Father  Innocent  had 
been  to  him  from  the  beginning  all  that  was  good  upon 
earth,  that  could  be  good  in  Heaven,  he  would  never  love 
anyone  as  he  had  loved  Father  Innocent,  but  he  liked  Mr. 
Macarthy  pretty  well,  he  liked  him  and  Herr  Behre  and  Mr. 
Turlough  O'Meagher  better  than  anyone  else  in  the  world 
now.  For  Father  Innocent  was  dead  too,  lying  at  Glasnevin, 
not  so  far  from  Mr.  Macfadden  and  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robin- 
son, and  perhaps  Caroline  Brady.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  Caroline  Brady  .  .  .  odd  that  he  did  not  know 
if  Caroline  Brady  were  dead  or  alive  .  .  .  !  Caroline  Brady, 
if  she  were  alive,  how  old  would  she  be  to-day?  How  long 
was  it  since  they  met  .  .  .  and  parted  .  .  .  ?  Four  years 
was  it  ...  or  five  ...  or  maybe  six  .  .  .  ?  He  could  not 
reckon  the  years  backward  yet.  .  .  .  Mr  Macarthy  was 
just  beginning  to  teach  him  the  meaning  of  Time.  .  .  . 
"Take  care  of  Time,"  Mr.  Macarthy  had  said,  and  "Eternity 
will  take  care  of  itself."  It  was  this  thought  that  made  him 
interested  in  his  precise  age.  He  had  lived  thirteen  years. 
He  was  still  a  boy.  But  when  he  had  lived  as  long  again 


ADAM  LISTENS  TO  THE  BELLS  5 

.  .  .  that  is  to  say,  a  quarter  of  the  way  through  the  twen- 
tieth century,  he  would  be  twenty-six,  the  age  at  which  Na- 
poleon became  famous  as  the  conqueror  of  Italy  ...  as 
long  again,  say,  and  he  would  be  thirty-nine,  middle-aged, 
nearly  as  old,  perhaps,  as  Mr.  Macarthy  himself.  .  .  .  And 
yet  thirteen  years  from  that,  half  way  through  the  century 
he  would  be  fifty-two,  the  age  at  which  Shakespeare  died 
...  on  his  fifty-second  birthday,  it  was  said.  It  was  a 
queer  notion  to  die  on  your  birthday  .  .  .  perhaps  thirty- 
nine  years  from  now  he,  too,  might  be  dying,  like  Shake- 
speare, on  his  fifty-second  birthday.  Anyhow,  thirty-nine 
years  was  a  good  long  time,  almost  forty  years,  three  times 
as  long  as  he  had  been  living  already,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  he  had  been  always  alive  .  .  .  and  yet  he  remem- 
bered the  papers  he  used  to  sell  with  news  in  them  that  was 
stale  before  he  was  born  .  .  .  the  news  of  the  death  of  Sir 
David  Byron-Quinn,  for  example,  killed  in  the  Soudan, 
near  a  quarter  of  a  century  before  Adam  was  born.  And 
Sir  David  was  the  .  .  . 

It  was  a  queer  thing,  surely,  that  Herr  Behre,  known  to 
Miss  Gannon,  their  common  landlady,  as  "That  French- 
man" (which  was  ridiculous ;  for  so  far  as  he  was  anything, 
he  was  a  German)  should  think  that  Adam  resembled  that 
grand,  if  rather  naughty,  baronet  and  adventurer,  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn,  while  Adam  himself  found  him  uncannily 
like  his  godfather,  Mr.  O'Toole.  When  Mr.  O'Toole  was 
particularly  pleased  with  the  way  the  world  treated  him 
(which  was  seldom)  he  looked  at  you  with  eyes  that  were 
almost  the  same  as  Lady  Daphne  Page  gave  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn  in  her  portrait  of  him  at  the  National  Gallery. 
He  knew  that  portrait  well ;  for  he  often  went  to  the  gallery 
now  to  look  at  it.  Also  he  went  there  to  look  at  what  was 
called  a  bird's-eye  view  of  Dublin,  painted  by  a  man  called 
Mahoney,  from  the  spire  of  St.  George's  Church,  the  very 
spire  he  saw  through  his  window,  in  1850  .  .  .  that  was  half 


6  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

a  century  before  Adam  was  born.  Yet  he  thought  Dublin 
looked  much  the  same  then  as  now.  Immediately  in  the 
foreground  of  the  picture,  you  could  see  the  line  of  houses, 
the  backs  of  them,  from  Findlater's  Church  up  Gardiner's 
Row  and  Great  Denmark  Street  (with  the  new  school 
building  he  had  suffered  so  much  in  not  yet  there,  thank 
God!)  to  Mountjoy  Square,  with  the  windows  of  the  room 
that  were  now  Mr.  Macarthy's  but  then  belonged  to  some 
great  man,  a  Lord  Chancellor,  was  it?  ...  The  Lord 
Chancellor  was  the  head  of  the  Law.  He  knew  now  from 
Mr.  Macarthy  that  the  Law  was  not  necessarily  always 
wrong  .  .  .  though,  perhaps,  more  often  wrong  than  right. 
Mr.  Macarthy's  own  father  had  been  a  great  lawyer,  though 
not  a  Lord  Chancellor,  nor  a  lord  nor  a  chancellor  of  any 
kind.  Was  he  what  they  called  a  judge?  No,  he  thought 
he  had  not  been  a  judge.  To  be  a  judge  you  had  to  pre- 
tend to  be  half  an  Englishman  .  .  .  and  that  was  humbug. 
And  Mr.  Macarthy's  father  hated  humbug.  So  did  Mr. 
Macarthy.  Adam  was  a  little  afraid  of  Mr.  Macarthy :  he 
hated  humbug  so  very  bitterly.  It  would  never  do  to  tell 
the  smallest  lie  to  Mr.  Macarthy. 

He  had  never  told  a  lie  to  Father  Innocent :  but  he  won- 
dered if  he  might  not  be  tempted  some  day  to  tell  one  to  Mr. 
Macarthy  .  .  .  queer  feelings  come  over  you  when  you  are 
thirteen  .  .  .  and  Mr.  Macarthy  asked  questions  Father 
Innocent  never  asked  .  .  .  not  that  Mr.  Macarthy  was  what 
you  could  call  inquisitive.  Mr.  Macarthy  was  a  gentleman, 
and  gentlemen  are  not  inquisitive.  To  be  inquisitive,  Mr. 
Macarthy  said,  was  to  ask  questions  you  had  no  right  to 
ask.  Adam  felt  he  asked  no  question  he  was  not  right  to 
ask  .  .  .  but  sometimes  they  were  hard  questions  for  a  boy 
going  on  thirteen  to  answer  truly.  .  .  . 

St.  George's  bells  rang  six  ...  and  an  Angelus  bell  was 
ringing  too.  .  .  .  Adam  sidled  to  the  floor,  stretched  his 
arms,  and  yawned  .  .  .  one  of  the  questions  Mr.  Macarthy 


ADAM  LISTENS  TO  THE  BELLS  7 

had  asked  him  was  what  he  thought  about  when  he  lay  in 
bed,  wideawake,  yet  not  up  and  doing. 

To-day  he  was  thirteen,  he  would  no  longer  lie  in  bed 
when  once  awake;  he  would  be  up  and  doing  .  .  .  then  he 
would  be  less  afraid  of  the  temptation  to  tell  a  lie  in  answer 
to  one  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  questions. 

There  was  also  a  jollier  thought  that  called  him  out  of 
bed :  there  was  the  thought  of  his  birthday  present  ...  to 
signalize  his  entry  upon  his  teens,  Mr.  Macarthy  and  Herr 
Behre  and  Mr.  Turlough  O'Meagher  had  subscribed  to- 
gether to  buy  him  a  bicycle. 

The  first  present  Mr.  Macarthy  had  provided  him  with 
was  a  large  hip-bath,  and,  now  that  it  was  put  before  her  as 
an  economic  proposition,  Miss  Gannon  was  willing  to  find 
for  him  as  much  hot  water  as  he  could  use;  so  that  ordi- 
narily there  was  no  self-denial  called  for  by  his  ablutions. 
But  he  could  not  expect  a  bath  full  of  hot  water  so  early 
in  the  morning.  .  .  .  Eight  o'clock  was  the  hour  for  his 
bath  water,  and  hard  enough  it  was  to  get  him  to  take  it 
then.  But  this  morning  everything  was  different  ...  he 
was  thirteen  years  old,  going  to  be  a  man.  A  man  he  would 
be  at  once.  .  .  .  He  emptied  his  jug  into  the  bath,  slipped 
out  of  his  night  shirt,  splashed  two  handfuls  over  the  long 
hair  on  his  head,  then  stepped  boldly  in  and  sat  down  in  it 
.  .  .  rather  wished  he  hadn't,  but  persevered. 

Ten  minutes  past  six  found  him  wrapped  in  the  bath 
towel,  scrubbing  himself  into  a  glowing  heat,  and  feeling 
infinitely  great  and  good.  At  half  past  six  he  was  fully 
dressed  .  .  .  still  virtuous,  he  sat  down  to  do  a  little  Latin 
before  breakfast  ...  by  a  quarter  to  seven  the  Latin  Gram- 
mar had  given  way  to  the  Latin  Dictionary.  ...  By  seven 
he  was  reading  Keats,  starting  Endymion  for  the  hundreth 
time  ...  it  is  impossible  to  say  at  what  moment  he  re- 
linquished this;  but,  when  Miss  Gannon  brought  him  his 
breakfast,  she  found  the  table  littered  with  books  and  he 


8  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

himself  comfortably  drowsing  between  two  bicycle  cata- 
logues. 

"There,  there,"  said  she,  "I  thought,  on  your  birthday, 
you  might  at  least  be  trying  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf." 

"I  have,"  said  Adam.     "I've  been  at  work  for  hours." 

"Ah,  go  on !"  said  Miss  Gannon,  but  she  did  not  speak  so 
crossly  now  as  she  was  wont  to  do  when  Adam  first  came 
under  her  charge.  She  was  merely  disturbed  to  think 
where  on  earth  she  was  to  store  Adam's  bicycle,  that  the 
barrister  of  great  antiquity,  though  still  junior  in  standing, 
who  resided  on  her  first  floor,  might  not  break  either  it  or 
himself  by  falling  over  it  when  intoxicated. 

Since  Adam  had  become  Mr.  Macarthy's  ward,  and  even 
before  his  thirteenth  birthday,  St.  George's  Place,  from 
Miss  Gannon  herself  to  St.  Kevin  the  cat,  had  revolved 
round  Adam  Macfadden. 


CHAPTER  II 
BUYING  A  BICYCLE 

AT  nine  o'clock  Adam  left  the  house  to  seek  his  guardian, 
his  chief  guardian,  Stephen  Macarthy.  Normally  it  was 
six  minutes'  walk  from  his  house  to  Mr.  Macarthy's,  but 
this  morning  he  would  have  done  it  in  four  and  three 
quarters  had  he  not  encountered  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde 
mounting  his  own  bicycle  at  the  corner  of  Gardiner  Street, 
and  Adam  stopped  to  see  that  very  large  man  mount  nimbly 
as  a  boy  upon  his  proportionally  large  machine,  and  speed 
off  down  Gardiner's  Place  like  a  traveling  pillar  of  the 
Church.  He  did  not  go,  however,  without  throwing  Adam 
a  cheery  "Good  day,"  in  the  voice  of  one  interested  in  him 
individually,  apart  from  his  general  benevolence  towards 
the  world. 

Adam  always  felt  that  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  was  a  man 
he  would  like  to  know,  ever  since  the  day  he  had  given  him 
sixpence  and  a  caution  not  to  sell  him  old  newspapers  out- 
side the  Gresham  Hotel.  To-day  he  remembered  how  he 
had  been  wont  to  pray  for  the  conversion  of  the  good  Doc- 
tor from  the  tenets  associated  with  Geneva,  or  rather  Find- 
later's  Church,  to  those  associated  with  Father  Innocent. 
He  smiled  at  that  recollection  now;  smiled,  too,  to  remem- 
ber how  Father  Innocent  had  cautioned  him  not  to  touch 
his  cap  to  him  in  any  way  that  implied  recognition  of  his 
sacerdotal  pretensions :  he  had  had  difficulty  in  distinguish- 
ing between  the  kindly  gentleman  and  the  perverse  Pres- 
byter :  he  was  cheered  to  reflect  that  anyhow  he  had  never 
offended  that  early  friend.  .  .  .  He  noticed  that  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy always  took  off  his  hat  to  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  .  .  . 

9 


io  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

it  occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that  Mr.  Macarthy 
did  not  take  off  his  hat  to  priests  with  whom  he  had  no 
personal  acquaintance.  .  .  .  Also  it  struck  him  that  he  did 
not  know  a  priest  who  rode  a  bicycle.  .  .  .  Dr.  Hillingdon- 
Ryde  was  a  grand  man,  and  yet  he  rode  a  bicycle  .  .  .  there 
could  be  nothing  ignoble  about  riding  a  bicycle  ...  it  was 
pleasant  to  ride  a  bicycle.  .  .  .  Why  did  none  of  the  Jesuits 
ride  bicycles?  .  .  .  was  it  a  question  of  dogma? 

When  he  had  entered  the  house  in  Mountjoy  Square  and 
was  standing  in  the  sitting-room  of  the  upper  part  belonging 
to  Mr.  Macarthy,  looking  down  over  the  Square  itself  with 
glimpses  of  the  Dublin  hills  over  the  roofs  of  the  south  side, 
he  asked  his  guardian,  "Is  there  any  reason  why  priests 
should  not  ride  bicycles?" 

And  Mr.  Macarthy's  answer  was  typical  of  him :  "If  a 
priest  does  not  ride  a  bicycle  there  must  be  some  reason  for 
it  ...  however  bad."  Mr.  Macarthy  left  it  at  that. 

"I  can't  understand  anyone  not  riding  a  bicycle,"  said 
Adam. 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  grimly.  "Perhaps  you  will  under- 
stand more  about  it  in  a  few  days  ...  or  perhaps  you  may 
not,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  Somehow  Adam  did  not  care  for 
him  so  much  as  usual  this  morning.  There  was  an  irony 
in  his  tone  from  which  Father  Innocent  had  been  entirely 
free.  And  Father  Innocent  was  still  to  remain  for  some 
years  from  his  death  Adam's  standard  of  right  and  wrong. 

Presently  Mr.  Macarthy  and  Adam  left  the  house  to 
purchase  the  bicycle.  Adam  had  expected  to  be  led  by  the 
more  ceremonial  route  to  the  shop  in  Nassau  Street,  on  the 
south  side,  where  the  famous  transaction  was  to  take  place. 
That  is  to  say,  he  thought  he  would  be  taken  from  the 
house  on  the  north  side  of  Mountjoy  Square  by  Gardiner's 
Place  and  Denmark  Street,  turning  to  the  left  by  Find- 
later's  Church,  down  the  east  side  of  Rutland  Square  (com- 
monly called  Cavendish  Row,  though  Cavendish  Row  was 


BUYING  A  BICYCLE  11 

but  the  few  houses  at  the  end)  into  Sackville  or  O'Connell 
Street,  with  the  Gresham  Hotel  so  redolent  of  memories, 
particularly  the  savor  ascending  the  area  from  the  kitchen, 
over  O'Connell  Bridge,  along  Westmoreland  Street,  round 
the  front  entrance  to  Trinity  College  and  the  Provost's 
House,  and  by  the  south  wall  of  the  college  to  their  destina- 
tion. Since  waking  that  morning  his  fancy  had  made  the  pil- 
grimage twenty  times.  It  was  disappointing  that  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy  chose  to  bring  him  the  dull  and  smelly  way  by  the 
west  side  of  the  square  and  down  Lower  Gardiner  Street. 
As  they  passed  the  eastern  end  of  Pleasant  Street,  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy  asked,  "Have  you  seen  your  mother  lately?"  Adam 
said  he  had  not.  "Nor  Mr.  O'Toole?"  asked  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy.  Adam  said  he  had  seen  neither  of  them  since  he  had 
come  into  Mr.  Macarthy's  charge  some  weeks  before.  And 
Mr.  Macarthy  let  the  subject  drop  as  they  passed  on  into 
Beresford  Place. 

On  the  steps  of  Liberty  Hall  stood  a  shortish,  thickset 
man  with  a  heavy  mustache,  talking  to  a  taller  man  with 
a  high  complexion  and  a  beard,  who  limped  as  he  moved. 
Mr.  Macarthy  waved  to  them  and  they  gravely  returned  his 
salute.  It  surprised  Adam  that  his  guardian  should  be  on 
cordial  terms  with  these  men ;  for  he  knew  that  his  father, 
the  pious  and  orthodox  Malachy  Macfadden,  had  found 
common  ground  with  Mr.  O'Toole  and  Father  Tudor  in 
denouncing  all  persons  connected  with  Liberty  Hall,  as 
anarchists.  He  was  inclined  to  question  his  guardian  on 
the  subject  but  was  too  preoccupied  by  the  thought  of 
his  bicycle  to  trouble  himself  to  frame  the  question.  Besides 
his  mind  was  dulled  and  a  little  disgruntled  by  their  follow- 
ing this  tedious  route,  though  in  fact  it  was  the  shorter  one. 

Over  Butt  Bridge  they  went,  a  train  booming  along  beside 
them  on  their  left,  obscuring  the  very  sky,  and  on  into 
Brunswick  Street,  perhaps  the  ugliest  street  in  Christen- 
dom; and  then  up  Westland  Row  and  round  by  Lincoln 


12  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Place  to  the  shop.  And  even  in  the  shop  disillusion  awaited 
Adam ;  for  they  had  not  the  bicycle  that  Adam  wanted.  It 
was  there  in  their  catalogue  right  enough,  but  it  was  not  in 
the  shop.  Nor  apparently  was  it  in  Ireland.  It  might  pos- 
sibly be  in  the  factory  of  the  firm  for  which  the  shopman 
was  agent :  but  that  was  hundreds  of  miles  away  at  Coven- 
try :  and  even  of  its  being  there  the  shopman  did  not  seem 
quite  confident.  "There  is  a  great  demand  for  that  num- 
ber," said  he,  "there  is  a  great  run  on  it,  it  is  very  good 
value  and  I  think  they  make  very  few  of  them." 

"A  decoy,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  drily. 

The  shopman  waved  a  deprecating  hand.  "I  wouldn't 
call  it  that,"  said  he.  "But  there  it  is." 

"There  it  isn't,"  Mr.  Macarthy  corrected  him.  He  looked 
at  Adam's  crestfallen  countenance,  then  turned  to  the  shop- 
man again.  "If  we  order  it  is  there  any  hope  of  our 
getting  it?" 

"Oh  yes,  yes,"  said  the  shopman,  "if  you  care  to  pay  for 
it  now  we  would  promise  delivery  .  .  ." 

"When?"  asked  Mr.  Macarthy.  The  shopman  consulted 
a  book.  "We  might  be  able  to  manage  it  next  spring,"  said 
he.  Adam  was  conscious  of  a  desire  to  assassinate  the 
shopman. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  He  looked  at  Adam 
and  read  his  thoughts.  "I  do  not  feel  certain  of  living  for 
ever,"  said  he,  "even  though  buoyed  up  by  the  hope  of  buy- 
ing one  of  your  bicycles.  Have  you  anything  in  stock  that 
you  think  would  be  suitable  for  our  young  friend?"  The 
shopman  was  quite  confident  that  he  had;  and  in  the  end, 
despite  Mr.  Macarthy's  misgivings,  Adam  did  in  fact  find 
himself  in  possession  of  a  bicycle  which  he  declared  to  be 
entirely  suitable.  He  knew  in  his  heart  that  it  was  too  big, 
too  high-geared,  too  long-cranked  and  too  heavy.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Macarthy  suggested  all  these  objections,  but  Adam  insisted 
that  it  was  just  what  he  wanted,  so  Mr.  Macarthy  bought 


BUYING  A  BICYCLE  13 

and  paid  for  it,  nine  guineas.  Adam  was  startled  when  he 
heard  the  price.  "One  hundred  and  eighty-nine  shillings," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  clenched  his  teeth:  there  was  no 
going  back  on  it  now :  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  that  bicycle 
must  be  all  right. 

After  all  that  was  not  a  really  happy  birthday.  The 
thought  of  the  bicycle  and  the  many  ways  in  which  he 
knew  it  was  going  to  prove  unsuitable  haunted  Adam:  the 
price  of  it  haunted  him.  "One  hundred  and  eighty-nine 
shillings,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  as  he  walked  with  Mr. 
Macarthy  along  Nassau  Street  to  Grafton  Street.  But  there 
were  strange  happy  moments  in  it.  There  was,  for  instance, 
the  fine  thrill  of  meeting  at  the  corner  of  Dawson  Street  the 
Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica  and  Babs  Burns. 

They  were  a  curious  contrast,  the  Marchesa  and  Babs 
Burns :  Adam  thought  it  odd  they  should  be  walking  to- 
gether. The  Marchesa  perhaps  looked  less  of  a  rag-bag 
than  he  had  thought  her  on  the  night  of  his  presentation  to 
her  at  the  Six  Muses  Club,  when  she  had  enlisted  him  in 
her  company  of  young  Druids;  then  she  had  been  in  a  sort 
of  frowsy  full  dress  emphasizing  her  untidiness.  To-day 
she  looked  like  an  elderly  Diana  who  had  come  a  mucker  in 
sloppy  country.  Adam's  notion  of  the  hunting  field  was  as 
literary  as  his  notion  of  mythology;  but  that  is  how  he 
would  have  described  the  too-famous  mistress  of  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn.  Beside  her  draggled  and  faded  beauty  Babs 
Burns  shone  like  the  first  bright  flame  of  a  new-lit  fire  .  .  . 
so  far  as  Adam  dared  to  look  at  her  she  was  a  radiant 
dragon-fly  all  green  and  gold.  She  had  one  arm  interlaced 
with  the  Marchesa's  and,  bringing  the  other  to  meet  it,  she 
pulled  her  up  short  in  front  of  Mr.  Macarthy.  Adam  found 
himself  suddenly  fierily  resenting  something  ...  he  did  not 
know  exactly  what.  .  .  .  But  he  certainly  did  resent  some- 
thing as  Babs  Burns  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Macarthy. 
.  .  .  Resentment  faded  as  he  found  himself  walking  beside 


i4  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Miss  Burns,  squiring  her  up  Grafton  Street.  Mr.  Macarthy 
walked  in  front  with  the  Marchesa  on  his  arm  ...  he  was 
bringing  them  to  lunch  at  Mitchell's.  "Don't  you  think," 
said  Miss  Burns  in  Adam's  ear,  "don't  you  think  the  Mar- 
chesa's  simply  wonderful?" 

Adam  readily  replied  that  she  was.  "I  do  indeed,"  said 
he.  He  would  have  said  anything  that  Miss  Burns  wished 
him  to  say.  But  he  wondered  in  what  particular  Miss  Burns 
herself  expected  him  to  find  the  Marchesa  wonderful. 

She  went  on :  "I  think  she's  simply  sweet.  Don't  you  ?" 
And  Adam  again  declared  he  thought  her  simply  sweet. 

Then  he  tried  to  originate  a  proposition.  "Getting  on  a 
bit,  isn't  she?"  he  said. 

"Ninety  if  she's  a  day,"  said  Miss  Burns,  and  the  conver- 
sation flagged  while  Adam  tried  to  reckon  whether  this  cal- 
culation could  possibly  be  correct.  He  was  still  doubtful 
of  it  when  they  reached  Mitchell's. 

Mr.  Macarthy  led  them  upstairs,  and  in  the  least  unquiet 
part  of  that  thriving  restaurant  they  lunched. 

"It  is  Adam's  birthday,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  to  explain 
his  order  of  a  bottle  of  port.  Adam  helped  them  to  drink 
his  own  health,  but  he  noticed  that  it  was  to  the  Marchesa 
that  their  host  looked  to  do  the  main  work  of  emptying  the 
bottle.  To  himself  as  well  as  Adam  he  poured  scarce 
half-a-glass,  murmuring  that  they  were  pledged  to  Tem- 
perance. 

Still  all  of  them  drank  enough  to  make  them  talkative, 
and  they  were  a  merry  party,  particularly  Babs.  Adam 
thought  her  even  more  brilliant  than  her  mother,  though 
again  he  felt  that  strange  resentment  when  she  seized  the 
opportunity  of  the  Marchesa's  bending  to  pick  up  her  nap- 
kin, to  take  Mr.  Macarthy's  glass  and  empty  it.  ...  He  re- 
membered (one  of  his  earliest  remembrances)  seeing  his 
mother  take  Mr.  Byron  OToole's  tumbler  of  porter  and 


BUYING  A  BICYCLE  15 

empty  it.  "You  see,"  Miss  Burns  said  to  him,  "I  make 
Mr.  Macarthy  keep  his  pledges." 

True,  Miss  Burns  was  as  little  like  his  mother  as  Mr. 
Macarthy  was  like  his  godfather  .  .  .  still  he  did  not  like 
to  see  it  ...  and  was  still  pondering  why  when  he  vaguely 
realized  that  luncheon  was  over  and  that  Mr.  Macarthy  was 
telling  him  it  was  time  to  be  going  home  .  .  . 

He  was  relieved  to  find  that  he  had  full  command  of  his 
limbs,  though  the  situation  of  the  stairs  seemed  to  have 
changed,  and  a  very  extraordinary  thing  happened  as  he 
passed  out  into  the  street.  .  .  .  He  turned  expecting  to  see 
Miss  Burns  and  he  saw  .  .  .  Caroline  Brady  .  .  .  then  he 
felt  Mr.  Macarthy  supporting  him.  "Has  the  wine  upset 
you?"  he  asked. 

"N — no,"  said  Adam  ...  he  could  not  see  Caroline 
Brady  any  longer,  but  neither  could  he  see  Barbara  Burns 
nor  the  Marchesa.  Mr.  Macarthy  put  him  on  a  car  to  bring 
him  home,  and  by  the  time  they  had  crossed  O'Conneli 
Bridge  he  was  puzzling  his  brains  again  about  the  bicycle 
and  had  ceased  to  wonder  whether  he  had  seen  Caroline 
Brady's  ghost. 

The  night  was  falling  when  the  bicycle  was  delivered  at 
St.  George's  Place.  He  took  it  out  at  once  behind  the 
church,  made  an  effort  to  mount,  fell  off  it  and  hurt  himself 
so  badly  that  he  retired  to  the  house  in  tears. 

It  had  been  a  bitterly  disappointing  day,  but  he  dreamt 
that  night  he  was  making  quite  a  successful  bicycle  tour 
nowhere  in  particular  with  Barbara  Burns. 


CHAPTER  III 
ADAM  LEARNS  TO  BICYCLE 

ON  the  second  day  of  Adam's  fourteenth  year  he  rose  as 
early  as  on  the  first,  bathed  only  a  little  less  enthusiastically, 
hustled  into  his  clothes,  and,  having  eaten  a  biscuit,  de- 
scended to  the  hall.  The  staircase  told  him  that  he  was  still 
aching  from  his  fall  the  night  before :  he  had  already  been 
conscious  of  the  bruises,  drying  himself  after  his  bath. 
Still,  he  was  determined  to  pursue,  in  the  silent  loneliness 
of  the  young  day,  his  study  of  the  art  of  bicycling. 

Closing  the  door  softly  behind  him,  he  tried  to  spring 
into  the  saddle  in  St.  George's  Place,  but  did  not  succeed  in 
doing  so ;  so,  as  there  was  a  milkman  who  might  be  watch- 
ing him,  he  pretended  to  find  there  was  something  about  the 
mechanism  of  the  machine  which  rendered  it  unridable. 
He  pushed  it  round  the  corner  into  Temple  Street,  where 
he  tried  to  mount  it  from  the  step.  He  might  have  reached 
the  saddle  this  time  had  not  an  unnoticed  youth  delivering 
newspapers  advised  him  to  pay  a  penny  more  and  get 
inside.  This  so  offended  him  that  he  thought  it  well  to 
turn  yet  another  corner  before  repeating  the  attempt.  In 
Gardiner's  Place  he  did  reach  the  saddle,  when  the  appear- 
ance of  a  policeman  (he  had  not  yet  learned  to  love  police- 
men) upset  both  him  and  his  bicycle  completely.  This 
policeman,  very  young  and  very  tall,  picked  him  up  in  one 
hand  and  the  bicycle  in  the  other  and  tried  to  put  them 
together  again.  But  Adam  thanked  him  and  said  he  would 
walk.  The  policeman  said,  "Sure,  you'll  never  learn  the 
filosopeed  if  you  don't  get  up  on  it";  to  which  Adam  re- 
plied, rather  priggishly,  that  he  was  not  trying  to  learn  the 

16 


ADAM  LEARNS  TO  BICYCLE  17 

filosopeed.  The  policeman  good-naturedly  explained: 
"That's  what  they  call  a  'bike'  where  I  come  from."  Adam 
tactfully  asked  where  he  came  from,  and  managed  to  be- 
guile the  willing  guardian  of  the  law  into  a  conversation 
which  carried  them  through  Gardiner's  Place  as  far  as  the 
west  gate  of  Mountjoy  Square,  where  he  bade  his  com- 
panion good-by  and  let  himself  in  with  a  key.  The  con- 
stable nodded  sagely.  "Sure,  I  admire  the  science  of  ye," 
said  he ;  "ye'll  be  falling  a  dale  aisier  on  the  grass  plot  than 
on  the  ground." 

But  Adam  had  no  intention  of  going  on  the  grass  plot. 
Apart  from  any  other  consideration,  it  was  in  too  heavy  a 
condition  at  that  time  of  the  year  for  him  to  ride  his  bicycle 
on.  His  bright  idea  was  to  mount  the  bicycle  by  the  aid  of 
the  several  seats  standing  at  regular  intervals  round  the. 
center  plot.  He  counted  on  going  from  one  to  the  other  as 
it  were  from  port  to  port.  It  seemed  an  excellent  idea  until 
he  tried  it,  and  indeed  it  remained  an  excellent  idea  when, 
two  hours  later,  he  went  home,  having  mounted  at  the  first 
seat  many  scores  of  times,  albeit  without  attaining  on  any 
voyage  even  the  half-way  to  the  second.  He  returned  home 
a  sad  and  bruised  and  almost  despairing,  but  a  hungry  and 
a  healthy,  little  boy. 

This  program  was  continued  into  the  month  of  May 
without  his  ever  quite  reaching  the  second  seat,  except  when 
he  started  with  the  second  seat  and  tried  with  no  better 
success  to  reach  the  third.  When  Mr.  Macarthy  or  Mr. 
Behre  asked  him  how  he  enjoyed  bicycling,  he  said,  "Very 
much  indeed."  And  so,  considered  as  an  amusement,  in 
the  abstract  he  did  enjoy  it :  but  he  sometimes  wished,  as  he 
limped  downstairs  in  the  early  morning,  that  some  kind 
burglar  had  purloined  the  machine  in  the  night.  He  hugged 
and  kissed  St.  Kevin  when  he  found  that  that  inquiring 
animal  had  punctured  the  back  tyre  with  his  claws.  That 
secured  him  one  morning's  respite. 


i8  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

But  the  next  morning  he  went  with  fresh  courage  to  the 
assault ;  and  that  morning,  perhaps  favored  by  the  wind,  he 
reached  the  second  seat.  Though  unable  to  repeat  his 
achievement,  he  returned  to  breakfast  with  the  conviction 
that  he  could  now  report  progress.  It  was  disappointing 
that  the  next  morning  he  did  not  reach  even  the  half-way 
mark  between  the  seats.  One  reason,  perhaps,  for  this 
was  that  he  was  conscious  of  a  young  gentleman  making 
faces  at  him  from  a  second  floor  window  on  the  east  side 
of  the  square.  The  morning  after  that  he  was  horrified  to 
hear  the  east  gate  slammed  and  to  see  the  young  gentleman 
himself  appear.  He  was  quite  a  big  fellow:  not  actually 
tall,  but  very  thickset,  with  a  square  face  and  a  dogged, 
cunningly  brutal  expression  in  his  brown  eyes.  Adam 
guessed  his  age  at  twenty,  or  not  far  less ;  he  was  smoking 
a  cigarette,  and  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  were  very 
stained  from  tobacco. 

He  came  straight  over  to  Adam  with  a  sauntering,  easy, 
intimidating  gait.  "You're  a  bloody  muff,"  said  he.  Adam 
said  nothing.  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  being  such  a 
bloody  muff,"  said  he.  Adam  said  nothing.  "I'll  show  you 
how  to  ride  that  bicycle,"  said  he,  and,  taking  it  roughly 
from  him,  mounted.  He  rode  round  the  center  plot,  his 
legs  much  bandied  to  allow  for  the  smallness  of  the  machine. 
Adam's  heart  was  in  his  mouth  lest  he  should  decamp  with 
it,  but  he  returned  to  the  point  from  which  he  started. 
"Now,  get  up,"  said  he,  "and  I'll  show  you  how  to  ride  it." 
As  Adam  hesitated,  he  repeated  in  a  terrifying  tone,  "Get 
up,  you  bloody  muff,  when  you're  told."  Adam  obeyed. 
His  instructor  seized  the  handle  bar  in  his  left  hand  and  the 
pillar  stalk  with  his  right,  and  started  running.  He  ran 
fast,  very  fast,  and  Adam  felt  he  was  but  a  feather  in  his 
grip.  Then,  with  a  mighty  push,  he  let  go,  and  Adam  felt 
himself  flying  through  space  into  the  midst  of  a  thorn  bush. 
When  he  picked  the  bicycle  out,  he  found  both  tyres  punc- 


ADAM  LEARNS  TO  BICYCLE  19 

tured  and  the  handle-bar  bent.  His  instructor  sat  on  a  seat 
smiling  and  rolling  himself  a  cigarette.  "That's  all  right," 
he  said ;  "you  really  did  ride  that  time,  about  fifteen  feet.-" 

And  it  was  a  fact  that  Adam  had,  for  the  first  time,  really 
ridden  a  bicycle.  When  the  machine  was  mended,  he  man- 
aged to  ride,  with  three  mishaps,  all  the  way  home  from 
Mount  joy  Square  to  St.  George's  Place.  Within  a  week 
he  rode  to  the  Park  to  see  a  review.  And  arrived  only 
some  hours  too  late.  Out  of  evil  had  come  good :  he  was 
a  bicyclist. 

It  is  true  that  Adam  never  really  felt  quite  at  home  on 
that  particular  bicycle;  but  he  could  as  a  rule  get  into  the 
.saddle  so  long  as  no  one  was  looking  on,  and  he  could  not, 
perhaps,  dismount  as  the  word  is  understood  by  experts,  but 
quit  that  saddle  at  the  journey's  end  without  materially  in- 
juring himself  or  the  bicycle.  His  lack  of  facility  in  dis- 
mounting was  a  positive  advantage  in  one  way;  for  he  never 
thought  of  dismounting  at  a  hill  until  the  gradient  became 
so  steep  that  the  bicycle  virtually  capsized  under  him.  He 
even  came  to  like  riding  that  bicycle,  though  he  could  not 
work  up  any  passionate  attachment  to  its  personality. 

It  was  a  June  day  when  he  was  inspired  to  pass  the  city 
boundary  on  the  south  side  and  cycle  through  Ball's  Bridge 
to  Kingstown,  and  on  to  Sandycove.  He  had  not  intended 
to  stop  there,  but  as  he  passed  Glasthule  Church  he  found 
himself  nodding  to  the  green-grocer  who,  how  many  years 
before?  .  .  .  had  sold  him  the  sprig  of  mistletoe  which  he 
had  failed  to  hold  over  the  head  of  Josephine  O'Meagher. 
He  chuckled  to  recall  that  he  had  not  failed  to  kiss  her,  he 
was  still  chuckling  when  he  caught  his  tyre  in  a  tram  line  and 
slithered  ignominiously  to  earth,  with  the  bicycle  dancing 
on  him. 

"You  might  show  us  how  you  do  that,"  said  the  voice  of 
Columba  O'Meagher  as  he  helped  him  to  arise.  "Perhaps 
you  wouldn't  mind  doing  it  again,"  said  Patrick  O'Meagher ; 


20  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"I  didn't  rightly  see  it."  Adam  pretended  to  be  amused, 
but  he  was  not.  Nevertheless,  he  condescended  to  accom- 
pany them  to  Capua  Terrace,  where  Patrick  oiled  the  bicycle 
and  blew  up  the  tyres,  while  Mrs.  O'Meagher  entertained 
him  with  tea  and  buns.  He  would  have  preferred  bread 
and  butter,  and  he  thought  she  ought  to  have  remembered 
that  he  preferred  bread  and  butter,  but  there  it  was :  she 
gave  him  buns.  He  ate  them  with  a  sense  of  injury,  reflect- 
ing that  if  Josephine  had  been  there  she  would  have  remem- 
bered that  he  preferred  bread  and  butter.  ...  A  tear  welled 
in  his  eye  to  think  of  Josephine  away  preparing  to  be  a  nun 
and  he  there  eating  buns. 

Presently  he  left  them  to  return  home.  He  started  off 
gaily,  answering,  when  Mrs.  O'Meagher  asked  him  if  it 
were  not  a  long  way,  that  he  would  be  home  in  a  jiffy :  and, 
in  fact,  he  was  home  pretty  soon ;  for  at  Sandycove  Station 
he  dismounted  or  was  dismounted  by  the  bicycle  and  so  back 
to  Westland  Row  by  train.  There,  assisted  by  the  down- 
ward gradient,  he  swept  from  the  platform  to  the  roadway 
with  a  rush,  and  sustained  a  concussion  with  one  of  Mr. 
Murphy's  trams,  which  decided  him  to  walk  the  rest  of  the 
way  home.  But  when  he  had  climbed  the  hill  from  Lower 
Gardiner  Street  into  Mountjoy  Square,  he  somehow 
achieved  the  saddle  once  again  and  remained  in  it  until  he 
collided  with  Attracta  outside  the  domicile  they  shared. 

Her  apron  torn,  but  suffering,  apparently,  no  internal  in- 
jury, Attracta  said  that  bicycles  were  dangerous  things,  as 
you  never  knew  where  they  would  have  you,  and  asked  him 
where  he  had  been.  "Somewhere  between  Kingstown  and 
Bray,"  said  Adam  carelessly. 

"And  did  yez  ride  all  the  way  ?"  Attracta  gaped. 

"What  do  you  think?"  cried  Adam,  and  Attracta,  of 
course,  thought  he  did.  She  thought  even  more;  for  she 
told  Miss  Gannon  and  Mr.  Gannon  and  Mr.  Murphy  that 


ADAM  LEARNS  TO  BICYCLE  21 

Master  Adam  had  ridden  his  bicycle  she  didn't  know  how 
far  into  Wicklow. 

Herr  Behre  also  heard  rumors  of  this  remarkable  exploit, 
and  mentioned  it  to  Mr.  Macarthy,  who  looked  puzzled. 
"There's  nothing  out  of  the  way  in  the  distance,"  he  said ; 
"Supposing  he  went  to  Bray  and  back,  that  would  be  well 
under  thirty  miles  of  fairly  easy  road.  I  did  it  myself  at 
his  age  on  a  solid  tyred  Premier ;  but,  somehow,  I  don't  see 
Adam  doing  it,  and  I'm  anxious  about  his  doing  it  on  a 
machine  which  I  think  is  too  heavy  for  him,  though  he 
won't  admit  it." 

"I  have  never  bicycled,"  said  Herr  Behre,  "but  I  think 
the  boy  does  not  walk  so  springily  since  he  had  that  bicycle." 
Their  eyes  met. 

"By  God,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  and  his  face  fell.  He  lost 
no  opportunity  in  cross-examining  Adam  as  to  the  famous 
ride.  And  Adam  had  no  difficulty  in  telling  him  the 
truth. 

"I  only  rode  to  Sandycove  and  came  back  by  train,"  he 
blurted ;  "it's  the  truth,  I'm  no  good  on  a  bicycle  at  all ;  I'd 
never  get  up  on  it  if  I  wasn't  thinking  of  the  money  I  let 
you  spend  on  it." 

Mr.  Macarthy  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "Come," 
he  said,  "if  I  make  a  fool  of  myself  that's  not  altogether 
your  fault,  even  though  you  did  encourage  me  in  my  folly. 
I  suspected  the  bicycle  didn't  really  suit  you,  and  I  ought 
to  have  been  with  you  when  you  were  learning  to  ride  it." 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Fond  as  I  am  of  you,  Adam, 
I  can't  attend  to  everything  at  once." 

Then  Adam's  head  bowed  over  sideways  on  his  guar- 
dian's hand  and  a  tear  trickled  down  his  cheek.  "It's  all 
I'm  a  silly,  vain  Billy,"  he  whispered.  Mr.  Macarthy 
laughed  softly.  "Better  that  than  a  Robin-a-Bobin  a  big 
belly  Ben,"  said  he. 


22  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

In  his  repentance  Adam  would  have  relinquished  bicy- 
cling altogether,  but  Mr.  Macarthy  would  not  hear  of  this ; 
and  so,  a  fortnight  later,  Adam  was  in  possession  of  another 
bicycle,  less  spick  and  span  than  the  first ;  for  it  was  second- 
hand: but  it  had  the  merit  of  being  of  a  suitable  size  and 
weight.  Then  the  real  joy  of  cycling  commenced.  And  it 
proved  to  be  almost  as  real  a  joy  as  the  cycling  in  his 
dreams,  except  that  he  never  really  came  to  like  getting  on 
or  getting  off,  or  mounting  any  but  the  gentlest  gradient. 

But  it  did  open  a  new  world  to  him.  It  did  make  him 
think  that  it  was  worth  while  to  leave  his  bed  ere  inquisitive 
milkmen  had  commenced  their  rounds,  and  there  were  only 
dusty  Dublin  sparrows  to  watch  him  mount  under  the  sha- 
dow of  St.  George's  Church,  and  trundle  off  over  the  Drum- 
condra  tram  lines  up  Eccles  Street,  past  the  Mater  Miseri- 
cordiae  Hospital,  where  not  so  many  years  ago  Father 
Innocent  and  a  never-to-be-forgotten  Sister  of  Mercy  had 
saved  his  life  from  the  Slough  of  Despond  in  which  cruel 
fools  had  sought  to  smother  it,  and  on,  following  the  tram 
lines,  over  the  canal  bridge  at  Phibsborough,  and  again  by 
the  brewery  near  Glasnevin,  the  road  the  funerals  go  to  the 
cemetery,  past  the  cemetery  itself,  lifting  his  cap  (at  the  risk 
of  falling  of)  to  the  memory  of  Father  Innocent,  most  be- 
loved of  all  friends  and  teachers,  to  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson, 
still  prayed  for  as  one  who  had  been  good  to  a  little  child, 
and  even  to  Malachy  Macfadden,  said  to  have  been  his 
father.  He  placed  his  cap  back  upon  his  head,  and  then 
lifted  it  again,  this  time  saluting  Caroline  Brady,  who  might 
or  might  not  be  lying  there.  .  .  .  Had  he  not  really  seen  her 
in  Grafton  Street? 

And  so  he  would  make  a  circuit  by  Finglas  and  the 
Botanic  Garden,  and  home  to  breakfast  with  a  hearty  ap- 
petite. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  NAKED  TRUTH 

IN  after  years  it  seemed  to  Adam  that  he  had  known  no 
happier  summer  than  this  when  his  bicycle  carried  him  first 
from  the  muggy  streets  in  which  his  infancy  had  been 
passed  into  the  high  air  of  the  country  that  lay  around 
Dublin.  As  a  child  he  had  not  even  lifted  his  eyes  to  note 
the  fairy  rim  of  mountains  that  looked  down  upon  the  city. 

If  he  saw  them  at  all,  he  thought  them  clouds,  and  was 
surprised  when  Mr.  Macarthy  told  him  that  the  line  which 
broke  upon  the  sky  above  the  houses  at  the  other  side  of 
Mountjoy  Square  were  the  hills  that  overhung  Bray.  It 
has  been  said  that  he  would  rather  ride  his  bicycle  on  level 
ground  than  seek  to  climb  a  hill  with  it,  and  so,  commonly, 
he  took  the  easy  roads  lying  inland  on  the  line  of  the  rail- 
ways and  canals  to  west  and  north,  not  those  leading  to  the 
higher  ground  that  lay  seaward  to  the  south  and  east. 

But  one  day  there  came  into  his  head  a  recollection  of  the 
book  called  Canon  Schmidt's  Tales  which  Sister  had  lent 
him  at  the  hospital  to  read.  He  had  not  cared  much  for  the 
book,  but  he  had  cared  very  much  for  Sister,  and  he  recalled 
that  this  book  had  been  given  her  as  a  prize  for  something, 
he  could  not  remember  what,  at  the  Loretto  Convent  at 
Rathfarnham  ...  he  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  look  with 
his  eyes  upon  that  educational  establishment  where  Sister 
had  been  rewarded  in  some  distant  period  for  her,  by  him 
forgotten,  achievement.  So,  it  being  a  fine  Sunday  when 
Mr.  Macarthy  was  not  expecting  him,  he  mounted  his  bicycle 
and  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  Rathfarnham.  So  far  he 
had  not  studied  maps,  and  was  uncertain  of  the  way,  so  he 


24  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

followed  the  tram  which  professed  to  go  there.  He  picked 
up  this  tram  by  the  statue  of  the  pious  and  immortal  King 
William  III.,  once  the  butt  of  patriotic  humorists,  but,  since 
the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  revered  as  a  Boer  general 
who  had  conquered  Britain. 

The  route  pursued  by  this  tram  was  little  known  to  him, 
and  for  the  first  mile  or  two  scarcely  more  agreeable  than 
the  neighborhood  in  which  he  had  first  tasted  the  bitter  cup 
of  life.  That  cup  was  growing  sweet  to  him  now,  but  his 
present  road  recalled  to  him  its  earlier  flavor.  Dame  Street 
was  all  right,  but  South  Great  George's  Street  was  worse 
than  the  worst  part  of  North  Great  George's  Street,  and 
worse  than  that  again  was  Aungier  Street,  though  he  re- 
membered vaguely  that  Tommy  Moore  was  born  there,  and 
Clanbrassil  Street  was  worse  again.  But,  the  canal  bridges 
passed,  there  was  a  slight  improvement,  and  past  Harold's 
Cross  a  marked  one.  Beyond  the  terminus  of  the  Rath- 
mines  tram  he  had  the  first  feeling  that  he  was  getting  near 
the  country,  over  a  bridge  crossing  a  stream  the  air  became 
fresher,  and  Rathfarnham  village  was  a  village  and  not  a 
mere  thatched  slum.  Here,  too,  he  noticed  that  there  were 
no  more  Metropolitan  Police  to  destroy  the  peace,  that  duty 
being  now  entrusted  to  the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary.  Ask- 
ing of  one  of  them  the  way  to  the  convent,  he  was  given,  in 
a  surly  northern  accent,  a  wrong  direction,  and  presently 
lost  himself,  having  taken  the  first  instead  of  the  second 
turning  to  the  right.  He  crossed  another  bridge,  a  very 
agreeable  bridge  over  an  agreeable  stream,  and  came  on  to 
a  mysteriously  constructed  village,  the  main  street  of  which 
led  nowhere :  but,  by  circumventing  it,  as  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole 
was  fond  of  saying,  and  riding  boldly  forward,  he  was 
presently  conscious  of  an  increasingly  difficult  resistance  to 
his  efforts,  and  perceived  that  he  was  actually  riding  up  the 
lower  slopes  of  the  Dublin  Mountains. 

He  persevered  for  a  mile  or  two  and  then  descended  and 


THE  NAKED  TRUTH  25 

walked.  A  feeling  of  exhilaration  seized  him  when  he  saw 
that  a  building  on  his  right  was  called  Air  Park.  He  sur- 
mised that  he  must  already  be  high  above  the  normal  habi- 
tations of  men.  And  in  fact,  though  he  was  not  very  high, 
he  was  higher  than  he  had  ever  been  before:  perhaps  five 
hundred  feet.  Presently  he  was  six  hundred  feet:  and  he 
was  over  a  thousand  feet  before  he  turned  into  a  field  some- 
where near  Killakee,  where  the  Hell  Fire  Club  met  in  the 
days  which  his  aristocratic  friend  Lord  Queenstown,  wearer 
of  the  archaeological  bracchae,  regretted  and  Herr  Behre 
thought  well  done  with.  Adam  had  never  heard  of  the 
Hell  Fire  Club,  and  had  he  heard  of  it  would  have  disap- 
proved ;  for  it  was  still  a  little  on  his  conscience  that  he  had 
even  so  much  as  drunk  his  own  health  in  port.  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy  had  encouraged  him  to  do  this,  and  so  it  was  not  a 
dishonorable  thing  to  do,  but  he  felt  it  was  a  sort  of  sin  to 
do  anything  which  Father  Innocent  had  even  hinted  was 
wrong.  Nevertheless,  he  was  conscious  that  he  did  many 
things  of  which  Father  Innocent  had  disapproved,  and  since 
Father  Innocent  was  dead,  he  had  confessed  these  sins  to 
no  one,  he  was  not  yet  even  absolved  by  the  Church  for  his 
hatred  of  Father  Tudor. 

But  it  was  not  of  Sin,  not  of  past  Sin,  that  Adam  thought 
as  he  climbed  the  mountain  and  lifted  his  bicycle  over  the 
stile  in  the  meadow  by  Killakee,  and  lay  down  and  stretched 
himself  under  a  thorn-tree  above  a  stream  that  ran  musically 
through  the  woods  to  join  the  Dodder  down  below,  and 
meander  into  the  Liffey  at  Ringsend,  and  swim  out  thence, 
with  the  Bristol  boat  maybe  upon  its  bosom,  into  the  great 
world.  From  underneath  that  thorn-tree,  lying  lazily  there, 
he  could  see  the  whole  of  Dublin  valley,  with  the  Hill  of 
Howth  that  he  had  once  taken  for  a  sea  monster,  resting 
on  the  water  like  a  wolf-hound  keeping  watch ;  and,  beyond 
that,  Lambay  Island,  and  away  in  the  distance  the  Moun- 
tains of  Mourne.  ...  It  was  a  beautiful  sight,  and,  won- 


26  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

derful  to  relate,  Adam,  though  he  had  never  seen  anything 
of  the  kind  before,  was  conscious  of  its  beauty,  conscious 
too,  vaguely,  of  a  sort  of  pride  that,  though  begotten  in  a 
filthy  slum,  he  too  was  dust  of  the  dust  he  saw  molded  to 
such  beauty.  His  heart  swelled  within  him ;  he  felt  strange 
feelings,  he  wanted  to  kiss  the  earth  .  .  .  then  he  jumped 
up  frightened,  instinctively  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
fled  from  that  meadow.  Outside,  he  tried  to  mount  his 
bicycle,  meaning  to  ride  farther  up  the  hill,  but  the  gradient 
was  too  steep,  and  he  fell  off,  grazing  his  ankle;  the  pain 
recalled  him  to  the  realities  of  life. 

He  was  of  a  mind  to  go  home,  but  as  he  stood  irresolute 
the  wind  blew,  it  blew  away  the  thought  of  home,  and  he 
walked  on  up  the  hill,  pushing  the  bicycle  in  front  of  him. 
He  was  very  hot,  sweating  all  down  his  back,  still  he  pushed 
on  up  the  hill,  past  what  motorists  call  a  corkscrew  bend, 
and  now  he  was  beyond  all  visible  houses  and  out  on  the 
boggy  moorland,  threaded  by  the  military  road  which  leads 
away  through  the  Dublin  and  Wicklow  Highlands,  he  knew 
not  whither.  He  thought  he  would  like  to  lie  down  on  one 
of  these  comfortable  looking  tussocks  on  the  moorland.  He 
had  no  idea  what  such  terrain  was  like,  and  was  astonished 
to  find  himself  slopping  into  water;  but  the  air  filled  him  as 
champagne  might,  and  he  pushed  on  with  the  bicycle,  slid- 
ing and  slipping  from  tussock  to  tussock,  wet  up  to  the 
knees,  and  the  bicycle  somewhat  damaged,  but  thoroughly 
enjoying  himself,  perhaps  sub-consciously  pretending  that 
he  was  Livingstone  in  the  heart  of  Africa.  Mr.  Macarthy 
had  commended  Livingstone  to  him  as  one  of  the  very  few 
heroes  whose  heroism  would  bear  examination. 

It  was  very  hot  now  in  the  sun,  but  a  delicious  wind  blew 
in  that  high  place,  a  bold  invigorating  wind,  a  rousing  wind 
that  might  have  swept  across  all  the  great  countries  of  the 
world  and  filled  the  lungs  of  all  the  great  men,  particularly 
the  great  young  men,  the  youths,  the  boys  since  the  first 


THE  NAKED  TRUTH  27 

Adam  was  a  boy  in  Eden.  Adam  thought  vaguely  of  the 
first  Adam  as  a  boy  in  Eden ;  he  wondered  when  that  first 
Adam  came  to  notice  that  there  was  as  yet  no  Eve.  In  that 
high  wind  blowing  across  houseless  and  unoccupied  moun- 
tain-side Adam  was  aware  of  the  absence  of  Eve.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  if  he  wandered  on  far  enough  he  would 
meet  her  blowing  towards  him  in  that  high  wind.  He 
knew  not  whence  she  was  to  come  or  whom  she  should  re- 
semble, he  did  not  even  visualize  her  as  a  Caroline  Brady  or 
a  Josephine  O'Meagher  .  .  .  absurd,  he  could  not  visualize 
Josephine  O'Meagher  as  Eve :  Eve  would  be  a  naked  beauty, 
naked  with  the  beauty  of  an  Italian  nude,  a  composite  and 
ecclectic  Italian  nude  from  the  National  Gallery. 

He  could  not  conceive  of  Josephine  in  lesser  clothing  than 
in  a  dressing  gown,  with  her  hair  down,  as  he  had  once 
kissed  her  (the  only  time  he  had  really  kissed  her)  going  to 
her  bath  at  Capua  Terrace,  Sandycove.  .  .  .  Capua  Terrace, 
Sandycove,  a  suburban  residence  the  garden  of  which  in  no 
way  resembled  the  Garden  of  Eden  .  .  .  the  Garden  of 
Eden  was  a  broad  expanse  such  as  the  moorlands  by  Killa- 
kee  as  they  looked  with  the  sun  on  them  in  summer,  with 
the  west  wind  blowing,  but  with  the  addition  of  jeweled 
and  fantastic  flowers  and  marvelous  wild  beasts  (tame  wild 
beasts  and  quite  harmless,  neither  male  nor  female)  .  .  . 
what  was  the  difference  between  male  and  female  .  .  .  ? 
He  had  been  told  often  enough,  but  it  seemed  a  paltry,  con- 
temptible, dirty  little  difference,  an  absurd  little  difference 
associated  with  the  Garden  of  Eden  and  the  thought  of 
angels  with  flaming  swords  ...  he  had  heard  Herr  Behre 
say  that  the  Garden  of  Eden  was  verdammter  Unsinn,  and 
that  meant,  he  was  not  quite  sure  what  it  meant,  but  he 
knew  from  the  way  that  it  was  said  that  Father  Innocent 
might  have  been  hurt  to  hear  Herr  Behre  say  it.  He  gath- 
ered that  Herr  Behre  did  not  believe  in  a  Garden  of  Eden 
conforming  to  the  requirements  of  the  Penny  Catechism. 


28  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

He  was  a  long  way  from  the  road  now :  so  far  that  even  a 
big  motor  on  it  became  just  an  automatic  toy;  people  walk- 
ing there  were  only  visible  by  reason  of  their  motion,  but  he 
himself,  lost  amidst  the  green  and  yellow  tussocks,  could  not 
be  seen  by  them.  A  little  ahead  of  him  the  sunlight  was 
reflected  on  a  pond,  a  white  cloud  bathed  in  it,  he  felt  like 
bathing  in  it  too.  Suddenly,  he  was  naked,  dancing  in  it 
joyously  .  .  .  queer  things  happen  to  you  once  you  enter 
your  teens.  He  had  been  dancing  in  it  quite  a  long  time, 
thinking  queer  thoughts  as  old  as  the  ancient  world,  when 
his  startled  ear  caught  a  sound,  a  sound  very  far  off,  but  a 
familiar  sound  .  .  .  the  laugh  of  Miss  Barbara  Burns. 
Panic  stricken,  he  dropped  full  length  in  the  pond,  to  hide 
his  body  in  the  fenny  water. 

And  he  saw  pass  in  the  distance  three  girls,  or  at  least 
three  females,  of  whom  the  foremost,  all  green  and  gold, 
was  Barbara,  and  after  her  came  another  girl  almost  as 
pretty ;  and  a  little  behind,  much  nearer  Adam,  came  another 
familiar  figure,  no,  not  familiar,  but  recognizable:  a  tall 
girl,  no,  not  a  girl,  but  girlish — the  lean  lady  he  had  seen 
dining  with  Barbara  Burns  at  the  Six  Muses  Club,  the  first 
time  he  had  seen  Barbara  Burns. 

Babs  and  the  other  girl  were  laughing  and  leaping  from 
tussock  to  tussock,  they  took  no  heed  of  him;  but  the  lank 
girl,  who  was  not  a  girl,  kept  moving  farther  and  farther 
from  the  others  and  nearer  to  him.  Instinct  told  him  that 
she  had  caught  sight  of  the  bicycle;  she  said  nothing,  but 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  not  directly  but  sideways,  like  an 
elongated  crab.  From  time  to  time  she  paused  and  looked 
round  with  an  air  of  indifference,  allowing  always  a  greater 
interval  to  occur  between  her  and  the  others  as  they  sported 
on.  .  .  .  Adam  lay  very  still ;  he  was  very  frightened  of  this 
lady,  he  wished  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  pond  ...  he 
wished  he  had  not  taken  off  his  clothes  ...  he  wished  he 
had  not  left  that  prudent  military  road  that  runs  through 


THE  NAKED  TRUTH  29 

the  Dublin  Hills  to  the  Lord  knows  where  .  .  .  the  lady 
was  close  to  him  now,  she  was  looking  down  on  him  without 
allowing  him  to  be  quite  sure  whether  she  saw  him  or  not. 
She  was  not  altogether  a  bad-looking  woman,  she  was  not 
old,  she  might,  perhaps  have  been  justified  in  describing 
herself  as  a  girl  and  dressing  in  a  girlish  way  .  .  .  but  to 
Adam  she  conjured  up  a  terrifying  recollection,  particularly 
terrifying  in  that  wild  and  uncanny  place  to  a  youngster 
who  a  little  while  before  had  given  himself  to  Pagan,  if  not 
positively  naughty,  fancies,  the  recollection  of  the  Lay  of 
St.  Nicholas  in  the  Ingoldsby  Legends.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  this  lady  resembled  that  other  lady  who,  on  being  ex- 
orcised by  St.  Nicholas  (that  saint  having  caught  her  in  the 
act  of  seducing  his  abbot)  suffered  a  painful  and  shocking 
change ;  this  lady  seemed  to  have  reached  the  stage,  as 
Adam  looked  at  her,  when  her  beautiful  eyes  should  turn 
to  coals  of  fire,  her  exquisite  nose  grow  a  horrible  snout, 
and  her  bosom  go  in  and  her  tail  come  out.  Physically, 
she  seemed  in  this  astonishing  act  of  transformation ;  hap- 
pily Adam  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  she  stared  no 
more  but  passed  on. 

Yet  Barbara  Burns's  laugh  had  long  died  away  in  the 
distance  before  Adam  dared  to  emerge  from  his  pool  and 
dry  himself,  sadly  and  painfully,  in  his  pocket  handkerchief. 
So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  for  quite  a  long  time  after  that 
Pan  was  dead  .  .  .  still  there  is  no  getting  over  the  fact 
that  wonderful  things  happen  to  you  when  you  enter  your 
teens  .  .  .  you  may  like  it  or  you  may  not.  As  he  bicycled 
home,  in  one  long  rush  down  the  hill  from  Killakee  to  Rath- 
farnham,  Adam  said  to  himself  that  he  must  try  not  to  like 
it  ...  he  also-  reflected  that  he  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
Loretto  Convent  at  Rathfarnham  ...  he  also  wondered 
whether  if  it  had  been  Barbara  Burns  .  .  . 

Had  Father  Innocent  been  alive  he  would  have  gone  to 
confession  then  and  there-  .  .  .  Father  Innocent  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  V 
PIETY 

AFTER  his  encounter  with  Pan  upon  the  Dublin  Mountains 
Adam  arrived  at  St.  George's  Place  somewhat  weary,  some- 
what stale,  neither  hot  nor  cold,  and  with  a  sore  throat. 
Nevertheless,  he  thought  he  was  hungry,  and  hungry  or  not 
supped  injudiciously  (Miss  Gannon  being  out  and  Attracta 
irresponsible)  on  sausage,  buttered  toast  and  tea,  into  which 
Attracta  forgot  to  count  the  number  of  spoons  she  put. 
That  night  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  demon  Asthma,  who  presented  such  an  alarming 
appearance  that  he  took  him  for  Lucifer,  and  promised  the 
Virgin  Mary  at  once  to  mend  his  ways.  In  the  morning  he 
did  not  rise  to  take  his  bath,  but  arrived  at  Mr.  Macarthy's 
late  and  his  toilet  perceptibly  ill  made.  He  was  a  little 
frightened  as  his  guardian  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  asked.  Adam  de- 
clared there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  him,  but  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy  brought  him  to  the  light  and  bade  him  to  put  out  his 
tongue,  and  Adam's  modest  ears  were  shocked  to  hear  him 
say,  "Bowels  out  of  order."  He  was  not  sure  whether  this 
was  a  question  or  not  and  was  glad  to  hold  his  peace ;  for  he 
did  not  regard  this  as  a  subject  proper  for  gentlemen  to 
discuss.  Mr.  Macarthy  went  on :  "You're  wheezing.  Have 
you  a  cough  ?  .  .  .  Try  to  cough."  Adam  failed  to  do  this, 
and  the  anxious  look  faded  from  Mr.  Macarthy's  face. 
"It's  only  bowels  out  of  order,"  he  said.  "What  have  you 
been  eating?" 

Adam  told  him  what  he  had  been  eating ;  and  from  that 
the  conversation  drifted  or  possibly  was  steered  by  Mr. 

30 


PIETY  31 

Macarthy  into  a  channel  running  on  the  whole  events  of  the 
day.  During  this  conversation  Mr.  Macarthy  stood  for  the 
most  part  with  his  back  to  Adam,  who  thought  that  at  times 
his  shoulders  rose  and  fell  for  some  reason  not  to  be  under- 
stood by  him.  For  Adam  took  that  Sunday's  adventures 
seriously.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Mr.  Macarthy  to  blame 
that  part  of  him  which  he  did  not  like  to  mention,  but  how 
did  he  know  it  was  not  the  devil?  It  occurred  to  him  as 
they  were  talking  that  Mr.  Macarthy  had  never  warned 
him,  as  all  his  other  friends  had  done,  to  keep  clear  of  the 
Gates  of  Hell.  Even  Herr  Behre,  though  said  to  be  an 
atheist,  had  confessed  that  he  would  not  like  to  go  to  Hell, 
in  dread  of  meeting  Father  Tudor.  .  .  .  And  yet  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy was  a  religious  man.  Every  Sunday  he  brought 
Adam  to  mass  at  Gardiner  Street,  and  not  to  short  mass  as 
Father  Innocent  had  thought  sufficient,  but  to  twelve  o'clock 
mass,  where  you  had  not  only  a  lot  of  music  to  listen  to 
.  .  .  music  of  a  kind  he  did  not  understand  .  .  .  but  in- 
variably a  sermon  which  as  often  as  not  he  found  yet  more 
incomprehensible. 

Sometimes,  of  course,  he  liked  the  music  and  sometimes 
even  he  liked  the  sermon  .  .  .  particularly  when  it  was  not 
about  going  to  Hell.  And  on  the  whole  the  sermons  at  the 
Jesuit  Church  held  forth  only  a  moderate  promise  of  Hell. 
They  did  not  make  you  feel  as  if  you  had  got  to  go  there 
whether  you  liked  it  or  not,  they  allowed  you  to  think  that 
.there  were  several  games  you  could  play  without  necessarily 
being  damned.  He  rather  gathered  that  you  could  bathe 
in  the  gentlemen's  division  at  the  Tara  Street  baths  and  die 
the  same  night  without  absolution  and  yet  be  punished  with 
no  worse  than  a  few  years  in  purgatory.  But  he  did  not 
think  you  could  immerse  yourself  in  a  pool  on  the  Dublin 
Mountains  in  the  same  frame  of  mind  as  he  did  yesterday 
without  being  guilty  of  Hell  fire.  .  .  .  Happy  thought,  he 
asked  Mr.  Macarthy  whether  he  believed  in  Hell  fire. 


32  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Mr.  Macarthy  answered  promptly,  as  he  was  wont  to 
answer  most  of  Adam's  questions,  that  if  there  was  a  hell 
it  seemed  reasonable  to  believe  that  there  would  be  fire  in 
it.  This  answer  did  not  wholly  satisfy  Adam,  but  he  had 
difficulty  in  finding  terms  in  which  to  express  his  dissatisfac- 
tion. Mr.  Macarthy  turned  round  and  volunteered  the  ad- 
vice that  if  he  were  Adam  he  would  not  worry  himself 
thinking  about  the  details  in  the  arrangement  of  that  estab- 
lishment. "The  thing,"  said  he,  "is  not  so  much  to  worry 
about  what  happens  to  us  when  we  are  dead  .  .  .  you  will 
find  that  that  will  arrange  itself  .  .  .  but  to  strive  to  be 
worthy  to  remain  alive." 

Adam  asked  if  he  were  worthy  to  remain  alive,  and  Mr. 
Macarthy  answered  that,  so  far,  he  was  aware  of  no  evi- 
dence to  the  contrary.  "As  an  earnest  of  my  desire  to  keep 
you  alive,"  he  said,  "here  are  some  Liver  Pills,  take  one  of 
them  going  to  bed  to-night  and  remind  me  to-morrow  to  look 
at  your  tongue." 

Next  morning  when  Mr.  Macarthy  looked  at  Adam's 
tongue  he  declared  him  to  be  better,  and  morally  and  phys- 
ically Adam  felt  that  he  was  so.  For  some  time  after  this 
his  soul  was  divided  between  the  merits  of  Liver  Pills  and 
those  of  religion.  He  found  that  the  solace  he  had  derived 
from  taking  the  Liver  Pills  strangely  reminded  him  of  the 
comfort  he  had  derived  from  confessing  his  sins  to  Father 
Innocent.  He  recognized  that  it  was  absurd,  and  he  laughed 
at  its  absurdity;  but  there  it  was,  a  plain  fact.  He  asked 
Mr.  Macarthy  if  he  supposed  that  the  soul  resided  in  the 
liver;  Mr.  Macarthy  gravely  replied  that  he  did  not  think 
the  word  liver  occurred  in  the  works  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas,  but  that  possibly  such  an 'idea  might  have  com- 
mended itself  to  Averroes.  Of  the  latter  scholiast  Adam 
had  never  heard,  and  Mr.  Macarthy's  answer  only  made 
him  think  that  it  was  a  queer  world.  He  told  himself  once 
again  that  it  was  the  excessive  queerness  of  the  world  that 


PIETY  33 

had  betrayed  Father  Innocent  into  that  unnatural  appetite 
for  rosary  beads  which  cut  short  his  sweet  life. 

He  found  himself  paying  more  and  more  attention  to  the 
sermons  at  Gardiner  Street,  striving  more  eagerly  to  under- 
stand what  the  preacher  meant.  Sometimes  he  asked  Mr. 
Macarthy  if  he  understood  what  they  meant,  and  sometimes 
Mr.  Macarthy  answered  that  he  did  not.  More  than  once 
Mr.  Macarthy  shared  Adam's  doubt  as  to  whether  they 
meant  anything.  But  there  was  one  priest  who  seemed  to 
Adam  always  to  mean  something,  and  he  was  glad  that  Mr. 
Macarthy  also  thought  that  there  was  something  at  least 
lying  in  his  mind  when  he  spoke.  He  was  a  young  priest, 
and  in  a  youthful  way  reproduced  certain  of  the  character- 
istics of  Father  Elphinstone,  who  had  been  spiritual  director 
at  Belvedere,  and  seemed  to  Adam  the  kindliest  creature  in 
that  academy. 

The  characteristics  he  reproduced  were  those  in  which 
Father  Elphinstone  resembled  Father  Innocent.  But,  as 
Father  Elphinstone  -was  more  intellectual  than  Father  In- 
nocent (as  Adam  from  the  first  recognized)  so  this  young 
priest  appeared  to  Adam  and  the  world  at  large  more  intel- 
lectual than  Father  Elphinstone.  He  even  used  a  termin- 
ology so  much  over  Adam's  head,  particularly  in  modern 
economics,  that  it  required  frequent  reference  to  the  dic- 
tionary for  its  elucidation.  But  although  Father  Ignatius 
Steele  held  the  language  popularized  by  the  Fabian  Society, 
his  message  was  essentially  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  As 
few  of  his  congregation  read  the  Bible,  they  were  mostly 
unaware  of  this,  and  many  gentlemen  there  frowned  at 
what  they  believed  to  be  heterodox  teaching.  The  men  of 
standing  who  had  the  patience  to  listen  to  Father  Steele's 
homilies  declared  that  he  was  a  Socialist.  And  all  the 
while  Father  Steele,  as  ingenuous  at  heart  as  Father  Inno- 
cent himself,  believed  himself  to  be  vindicating  Rome  in 
the  teeth  of  Liberty  Hall.  Father  Steele  was  a  well-mean- 


34  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

ing  man :  Adam  was  sure  of  that,  and  Mr.  Macarthy  ex- 
pressed no  doubt  of  it.  Ladies  loved  Father  Steele,  but, 
so  far  as  the  writer  of  this  book  is  aware,  there  is  no  shadow 
of  evidence  that  Father  Steele  loved  ladies  except  inasmuch 
as  he  loved  all  things  that  he  did  not  believe  to  be  hostile  to 
Jesus,  as  represented  on  earth  by  that  society  to  which  his 
saintly  namesake  gave  Jesus'  name. 

For  some  time  after  that  Liver  Pill  had  purged  his  con- 
science Adam  all  but  forgot  that  months  were  flying  past 
since  he  had  gone  to  confession  ...  he  had  hoped  that  Mr. 
Macarthy  would  say  something  to  him  about  it,  but  Mr. 
Macarthy  never  did:  except  that  he  brought  him  to  mass, 
and  would  tolerate  no  excuse  for  his  being  late  for  mass, 
Mr.  Macarthy  never  touched  on  any  religious  subject  not 
broached  by  Adam  himself.  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  Mr. 
Macarthy  were  religious  in  the  sense  that  Father  Innocent 
understood  religion  ...  in  what  sense  did  Father  Innocent 
understand  religion?  .  .  .  Did  he  understand  it  at  all?  ... 
If  he  understood  it,  why  did  he  try  to  eat  his  rosary  beads? 
Adam  asked  Mr.  Macarthy  if  he  knew  why  Father  Innocent 
ate  his  rosary  beads.  Mr.  Macarthy  smiled,  "Surely,"  said 
he,  "you  ought  to  know  that  better  than  I." 

Adam  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know  at  all,"  said  he. 
"Sure,  I'd  never  eat  my  rosary  beads." 

"Are  you  so  sure  ?"  Mr.  Macarthy  asked. 

"Sure  as  sure  can  be,"  said  Adam. 

"But  can  one  ever  be  sure?"  Mr.  Macarthy  insisted. 

Adam  warmed  to  the  subject.  "Look  here,"  said  he, 
"Sure,  you'd  never  eat  your  rosary  beads,  would  you?" 

"If  I  had  any,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "Lord  only  knows 
what  I  might  do  with  them." 

Adam  felt  as  if  he  were  treading  on  the  tail  of  a  comet, 
just  failing  to  catch  it.  "D'ye  think  God  knew  that  Father 
Innocent  was  going  to  eat  his  rosary  beads?"  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy's  answer  came  slowly  and  gently.  "I  think,"  said  he, 


PIETY  35 

"that  Father  Innocent  thought  God  would  understand  him 
•whatever  he  did  ...  I  beg  your  pardon;  to  be  precise,  he 
probably  thought  that  God's  mother  would  explain  to  him." 

"Lady  Bland,"  said  Adam,  pursuing  a  line  the  divergence 
of  which  escaped  him,  "Lady  Bland  said  that  the  Blessed 
Virgin  was  a  common  woman,  as  common  as  my  mother." 
He  waited  for  Mr.  Macarthy  to  dispute  this  thesis,  but  Mr. 
Macarthy  only  said,  with  the  ghost  of  a  yawn,  "I  wonder 
what  the  Blessed  Virgin  would  say  about  Lady  Bland." 

Adam  was  electrified.  It  brought  him  so  much  nearer 
the  Heavenly  Host  to  think  of  a  conversation  with  the 
Blessed  Virgin  on  the  subject  of  Lady  Bland.  He  almost 
felt  as  if  he  would  willingly  die  then  and  there  from  the 
sheer  interest  of  hearing  what  the  Heavenly  Lady  would 
say  of  the  terrestrial  one.  .  .  .  But  if  he  died  now  in  a 
state  of,  he  suspected,  something  uncommonly  like  mortal 
sin,  it  would  not  be  to  the  Mother  of  God  he  would  have 
the  privilege  of  addressing  his  remarks,  but  to  ...  He 
asked  Mr.  Macarthy  if  he  knew  the  name  of  the  devil's 
mother.  .  .  .  "Try  Hecate,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  drowsily, 
"or  any  old  thing." 

Adam  suspected  that  his  guardian  was  not  in  a  mood  for 
further  theological  argument.  .  .  .  To  Adam,  even  now, 
theology  and  demonology  were  indistinguishable  faculties. 
He  felt  that  Mr.  Macarthy  was  rather  frivolous  in  his 
attitude.  .  .  .  Father  Innocent  would  have  told  him  the 
name  of  the  devil's  mother  ...  if  he  happened  to  know  it. 
...  He  felt  that  Father  Innocent  would  have  tried  to  white- 
wash that  lady,  but  why  need  she  be  whitewashed  .  .  .  the 
devil  was  a  fallen  star  ...  his  mother  had  brought  him  up 
to  be  an  angel,  and  what  had  gone  wrong  was  not  her  fault 
.  .  .  the  catechism  said  that  the  devil's  lot  of  angels  were 
cast  out  of  Heaven  because  through  pride,  he  remembered 
the  very  words,  because  through  pride  they  rebelled  against 
God  .  .  .  silly  asses  not  to  know  when  they  were  well  off 


36  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

...  if  he  had  been  born  an  angel  he  wouldn't  have  been  a 
bit  proud  about  it,  but  only  very  grateful  to  be  enjoying 
himself  in  Heaven  instead  of  selling  papers  outside  the 
Gresham  Hotel,  or,  worse  still,  being  slapped  by  Father 
Tudor  for  making  a  slip  in  his  Holy  Catechism  at  Belvedere 
.  .  .  still,  he  didn't  want  to  be  in  Heaven  now  that  he  had 
a  bicycle  .  .  .  but  he  did  want  to  keep  out  of  hell,  and  he 
had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  that  bicycle  of  his  might  one  day 
whisk  down  with  him  to  the  deep  abyss  which  even  Father 
Innocent  had  thought  it  possible  for  him  to  tumble  over. 

He  asked  Mr.  Macarthy  if  Mr.  Macarthy  ever  went  to 
confession.  Mr.  Macarthy  answered,  "Not  often"  .  .  . 
he  asked  Mr.  Macarthy  if  he  did  not  believe  in  going  to  con- 
fession, and  Mr.  Macarthy  answered  that  he  saw  much 
good  in  it  ...  he  asked  Mr.  Macarthy  whether  he  thought 
that  he,  Adam,  ought  to  go  to  confession,  and  Mr.  Macarthy 
answered  that  he  supposed  he  did  go  to  confession.  Where- 
upon Adam,  somewhat  awe  stricken,  blurted  out  the  fact 
that  he  had  not  made  his  Easter  duty. 

"Speaking  as  a  Catholic,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  "that's 
pretty  serious,  you  know.  Technically,  you  are  excom- 
municate, and,  apart  from  any  other  consideration,  I  think 
it  insulting  to  the  memory  of  Father  Innocent  that  you 
should  so  soon  have  forgotten  his  teaching.  ...  I  am  not 
your  spiritual  director,  and  do  not  presume  to  probe  into 
your  soul,  but  if  I  were  you  I  should  go  to  confession." 

Adam  said  in  a  hushed  tone,  "I  can't  bear  Marlborough 
Street  since  Father  Innocent  died." 

"Why  not  try  Gardiner  Street?"  Mr.  Macarthy  sug- 
gested. "Don't  you  think,  for  instance,  that  Father  Steele 
might  be  as  much  use  to  you  in  a  confession  box  as  in  the 
pulpit?  He  seems  to  me  a  decent  chap." 

And  so  Father  Ignatius  took  Father  Innocent's  place. 


CHAPTER  VI 
FATHER  IGNATIUS  STEELE 

NEARLY  half  of  Adam's  little  life  was  gone  since  he  made 
his  first  confession  to  Father  Innocent;  for  six  unbroken 
years,  upon  the  first  Saturday  of  every  month,  and  some- 
times on  other  Saturdays  as  well,  he  had  taken  his  turn,  or 
more  often  led  the  kneeling  queue,  outside  the  little  priest's 
dusky  confessional  in  the  Pro-Cathedral.  Never  had  he 
confessed  himself  to  anyone  but  Father  Innocent,  and  it  was 
with  a  beating  heart  that  now,  too  late  to  make  his  Easter 
Duty,  and,  therefore,  if  for  no  other  reason,  in  dread  of 
damnation,  he  went  forth  to  face  his  new  spiritual  adviser, 
Father  Ignatius  Steele,  in  his  den. 

Needless  to  say,  it  was  a  Saturday  afternoon  when  Adam 
sought  audience  of  Father  Steele :  a  July  afternoon,  that 
seemed  to  anticipate  autumn,  but  was  yet  unusually  hot  and 
dry  for  Dublin,  that  moist  city.  Dust,  hot  as  the  sands  that 
engulfed  the  mortal  remains  of  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn, 
swept  up  and  down  Gardiner  Street  with  nervous  wind, 
uncertain  which  way  to  blow.  Adam  was  glad  to  get  under 
the  shade  of  the  portico,  "tetrostyle  of  the  Ionic  order," 
Mr.  Macarthy  had  called  it,  meaning  that  the  four  pillars 
with  their  entablature  were  of  a  fashion  invented  before  the 
Catholic  religion,  or  anything  you  could  call  a  religion,  in 
the  Isles  of  Greece.  Adam  heard  himself  saying  something 
aloud,  not  very  loud,  but  loud  enough  for  his  own  ears  to 
hear  and  be  shocked  as  he  helped  himself  to  holy  water. 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece, 
Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sang  .  .  . 
37 


38  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Adam  wondered  why  he  should  think  of  Sappho,  and  wond- 
ered why  Sappho  burned,  and  tried  to  remember  whether 
Sappho  was  a  male  or  female  poet  .  .  .  but  all  he  could 
remember  about  Sappho  was  that  he  or  she  left  fragments, 
and  his  mind's  eye  conjured  up  a  sort  of  politely  epicene 
writer  deliberately  composing  a  shattered  mosaic  of  verse. 
In  consequence  of  this,  he  forgot  to  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  and  passed  on  into  the  Church,  arguing  with  himself 
whether,  since  the  front  of  the  building  was  Hellenic  in 
style,  the  holy  water  font  might  not  be,  perhaps,  a  Grecian 
urn.  He  genuflected  before  the  High  Altar,  deciding  that 
it  was  not  the  sort  of  Grecian  urn  described  by  Mr.  Keats ; 
but  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the  Ignatian  chapel,  where 
young  Father  Steele  was  appropriately  housed,  he  had  at- 
tuned his  mind  to  the  more  Catholic  art  on  the  walls,  and 
walking  the  streets  of  the  Renaissance,  or  rather  the  counter- 
Reformation,  with  Loyola  and  his  great  disciple  who  gave 
the  Church  his  name,  St.  Francis  Xavier.  Even  ere  he 
knelt  down  in  front  of  Father  Steele's  box,  he  was  already 
muttering  to  himself,  albeit  mechanically,  an  act  of  con- 
trition. "Oh,  my  God !  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  having 
offended  Thee,  and  I  detest  my  sins  above  every  other  evil, 
because  they  displease  Thee,  my  God,  who  for  Thy  infinite 
goodness  art  so  deserving  of  all  my  love ;  and  I  firmly  re- 
solve, by  Thy  holy  grace,  nevermore  to  offend  Thee,  and  to 
amend  my  life." 

By  dint  of  repeating  this  act  of  contrition  several  times, 
he  convinced  himself  that  he  really  was  uncommonly  sorry 
for  something,  and  proceeded  to  examine  his  conscience  to 
discover  what.  At  first  glance  he  failed  to  place  his  finger 
upon  the  once  too  welcome  guest  whom  he  was  about  to 
call  in  the  aid  of  the  Church,  as  represented  by  Father 
Steele,  to  expel.  .  .  .  Ha,  he  had  it:  he  was  sorry  for 
having  missed  his  Easter  Duty,  sorry  for  having  so  long 
failed  to  confess  his  sins.  .  .  .  That  was  a  sin  in  itself,  to 


FATHER  IGNATIUS  STEELE  39 

fail  to  confess  your  sins  ...  he  could  have  been  excom- 
municated for  failing  to  confess  his  sins.  .  .  .  Now  for  the 
sins  he  had  failed  to  confess.  .  .  .  He  scratched  his  head 
.  .  .  the  sins  he  had  failed  to  confess.  He  was  alarmed  to 
notice  that  there  was  only  one  person  now  between  him  and 
the  box,  fortunately  an  old  lady,  who  might  not  be  very 
sinful,  but  experience  told  him  that  she  would  be  long 
winded.  Old  ladies  who  confessed  to  young  priests  had 
very  long  winded  consciences :  you  could  hear  them  mut- 
tering away  for  hours,  until  the  poor  priest  had  to  hoosh 
them  out  like  so  many  geese.  .  .  .  Geese!  he  once  had  a 
goose  of  his  own  .  .  .  that  was  a  grand  sin  to  confess.  .  .  . 
Gluttony  and  Deceit,  he  remembered  it  well.  .  .  .  He 
couldn't  think  of  anything  like  that  to-day  (there  was  that 
old  lady  going  in).  The  worst  of  being  so  long  away  from 
confession  was  that  you  forgot  all  about  your  sins.  .  .  . 
That  made  you  look  like  a  fool  before  the  priest.  .  .  .  If  it 
was  Father  Innocent,  he  would  help  him  to  think  of  a  thing 
or  two,  but  he  couldn't  count  on  any  help  from  Father 
Steele  .  .  . 

He  wished  he  could  think  of  a  sin  against  economics. 
.  .  .  What  was  a  sin  against  economics?  .  .  .  He  had  heard 
Father  Steele  say  in  the  pulpit  that  somebody  down  at 
Liberty  Hall  had  said  something  which  was  a  sin  against 
the  doctrine  of  economics.  ...  It  was  opposed  to  something 
that  had  once  been  said  by  Adam  ...  he  remembered  it 
had  been  said  by  Adam,  because  hearing  his  own  name  in 
the  pulpit  had  wakened  him  when  he  was  dreaming  about 
Caroline  Brady  (or  was  it  Barbara  Burns?  .  .  .  that  re- 
minded him  of  a  sin)  Adam  .  .  .  Adam  .  .  .  Adam  Smith, 
a  sin  against  economics  was  a  sin  against  Adam  Smith,  he 
gave  it  up.  .  .  .  But  there  was  a  sin  anyhow  :  he  had  thought 
of  Caroline  Brady  or  Barbara  Burns  (or  was  it  Josephine 
O'Meagher?)  when  he  ought  to  have  been  listening  to  a 
sermon.  .  .  .  What  sort  of  a  sin  did  you  call  that?  He 


40  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

thought  it  must  be  taking  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in 
vain.  .  .  .  But  God  wasn't  Adam  Smith,  and  he  did  hear 
the  name,  only  too  late  .  .  .  anyhow,  he  would  say  he  had 
broken  the  second  commandment;  he  repeated  in  a  whisper, 
"What  is  commanded  by  the  second  commandment?  .  .  . 
We  are  commanded  by  the  second  commandment  to  speak 
with  reverence  of  God  and  of  His  saints  and  ministers  of 
religion,  its  practices  and  ceremonies,  and  of  all  things 
relating  to  divine  service  .  .  ."  that  was  near  enough:  he 
had  broken  the  second  commandment  all  right.  (He  ticked 
off  a  second  finger  for  this  other  item  in  the  program 
...  he  could  hear  the  slide  by  the  old  lady  open  and  her 
mumbling  the  Confiteor  in  a  stage  whisper,  and  pinched 
himself  to  think  of  something  more.  He  was  beginning  to 
feel  sorry  now  he  had  come  to  confession.)  Happy  thought : 
he  ran  through  the  ten  commandments.  "I  am  the  Lord 
thy  God:  thou  shalt  not  have  strange  gods  before  Me. 
Thou  shalt  not  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in  vain. 
Remember  that  thou  keep  the  Sabbath  day"  .  .  .  that  was 
the  commandment,  the  third  he  had  broken,  not  the  second. 
He  snapped  his  fingers.  What  an  ass  Father  Steele  would 
have  thought  him  if  he  had  said  the  second  commandment 
when  he  meant  that  he  had  broken  the  third  .  .  .  but  if 
Father  Steele  did  not  know  what  he  had  done  he  couldn't 
guess  which  commandment  he  had  really  broken,  and  if  he 
was  really  sorry  for  breaking  it,  sure,  it  didn't  matter  what 
the  number  of  the  commandment  was  .  .  .  whatever  com- 
mandment he  broke,  Father  Innocent  had  always  given  him 
the  same  penance  .  .  .  but,  then,  Father  Innocent  seemed 
in  doubt  whether  he  had  ever  broken  any  of  the  command- 
ments .  .  .  except  once,  when  he  had  told  him  that  he  had 
spoken  disrespectfully  of  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole.  .  .  .  Father 
Innocent  seemed  to  think  that  was  a  sin  against  the  fourth 
commandment  .  .  what  was  the  fourth  commandment? 


FATHER  IGNATIUS  STEELE  41 

"Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother."  .  .  .  Mr.  O'Toole  was 
not  his  father  and  his  mother  .  .  .  there  was  that  old  lady 
coming  out  of  the  box  and  he  not  nearly  ready ;  still,  he  was 
in  for  it  now  .  .  . 

All  in  a  flutter,  he  rose  and,  shivering  down  his  back, 
stepped  on  tiptoe  into  the  stuffy  compartment,  still  warm 
with  the  vapors  of  the  old  lady.  Behind  the  closed  shutter 
he  could  hear  Father  Steele  clucking  what  he  judged  to  be 
disapproval  of  the  tale  filling  his  ear  from  the  emptying 
conscience  of  the  other  penitent.  He  wondered  what  that 
other  penitent  was  like :  as  he  had  been  kneeling  with  his 
back  to  him,  he  had  only  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  over  his 
shoulder.  .  .  .  His  impression  was  that  of  an  old  man  .  .  . 
he  shivered  to  think  that  he  might  be  a  dreadfully  wicked 
old  man,  a  downright  awful  old  man,  telling  all  sorts  of  sins 
to  Father  Steele.  ...  A  vague  hope  sprung  up  within  him 
that  the  catalogue  of  the  crimes  of  that  old  man  might  be  so 
exhaustive  that  Father  Steele  would  not  have  time  to  listen 
to  any  more  that  day  .  .  .  but  there,  he  could  hear  by  the 
mumble  of  the  priest's  voice  that  he  was  giving  that  old 
villain  absolution  after  all.  In  a  moment  he  would  hear  the 
other  side  click  and  his  slide  open.  .  .  .  He  nerved  himself 
to  be  ready  to  start  off  with  the  Confiteor  the  very  instant 
that  his  slide  shot  back.  .  .  .  How  did  the  Confiteor  begin? 
...  "I  believe  in  God  the  Father  Almighty  Creator  of 
Heaven  and  Earth  .  .  ."  No,  how  could  he  be  so  silly,  that 
was  the  Apostles'  Creed  .  .  . 

The  distant  slide  snapped.  Trembling,  he  was  conscious 
of  his  slide  rushing  back,  and  he  recoiled  to  the  extreme 
border  of  his  cage,  where  the  young  priest  could  not  for  a 
moment  see  him  .  .  . 

"Well?"  came  the  questioning  voice  of  Father  Steele. 
"Is  there  no  one  there  ?" 

And  Adam  whispered  "Me." 


42  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

The  priest's  tone  softened.  "Well,  my  dear  child,  what 
is  it?  Speak  up."  Then,  as  there  was  a  further  pause,  he 
prompted  the  young  penitent.  "I  confess  to  Almighty 
God—" 

Encouraged  by  the  kindly  voice,  Adam  eagerly  took  up 
his  cue.  "I  confess  to  Almighty  God  to  Blessed  Mary  ever 
Virgin  to  Blessed  Michael  the  Archangel  to  Blessed  John 
the  Baptist  to  Holy  Apostles  Peter  and  Paul  and  to  all  the 
Saints  and  to  you  Father  that  I  have  sinned  exceedingly  in 
thought  word  and  deed  through  my  fault  through  my  fault 
through  my  most  grievous  fault"  ...  all  this  he  said  dra- 
matically, if  without  punctuation,  but  then  his  mind  became 
a  blank. 

Again  Father  Steele  came  to  the  rescue.  "How  long  is 
it  since  you  have  been  to  Confession?"  As  Adam  still  hesi- 
tated, he  added :  "Am  I  right  in  thinking  that  you  have  not 
been  here  to  me  before?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Adam,  and  suddenly  began  to  cry.  There 
was  something  truly  paternal  in  the  priest's  tone,  but  fatherly 
in  the  sense  of  that  spiritual  paternity  which  was  the  only 
one  that  could  suggest  to  Adam  that  there  was  anything 
amiable  in  attributing  paternity  to  God.  .  .  .  Father  Steele 
spent  a  longer  time  over  Adam's  sins  than  over  those  of  the 
vaporous  lady,  or  even  the  wicked  old  sinner  he  had  just 
dismissed  with  the  Church's  pardon;  and  when  at  length 
the  boy  left  the  box  and  kneeled  to  say  his  first  penance  (by 
a  miracle,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  the  same  as  Father  Innocent 
had  given  him  but  for  the  addition  of  St.  Bernard's  prayer 
to  the  Blessed  Virgin),  he  felt  himself  to  be  very  nearly,  if 
not  quite  as  much  as  ever,  a  little  Catholic  who  loved  his 
Holy  Faith. 

He  walked  on  air  down  the  church  and  did  not  forget 
to  cross  himself  when  he  took  the  holy  water.  .  .  .  The 
weather  had  attuned  itself  to  his  repentance,  nay  more,  the 
wind  had  veered  into  a  patriotic  quarter  and  brought  up 


FATHER  IGNATIUS  STEELE  43 

clouds  of  rain  to  lay  the  dust  and  spray  Adam's  face  sooth- 
ingly as  the  holy  water  of  the  church  had  sprayed  his  soul. 

That  was  a  very  happy  afternoon,  with  a  happiness  that 
outlived  the  night  and  nerved  him  to  enjoy  his  cold  bath  in 
the  morning  and  go  empty-bellied  to  Holy  Communion  at 
Gardiner  Street  at  seven  o'clock.  ...  By  a  happy  chance 
that  seemed  to  him  more  than  chance  that  mass  was  said  by 
Father  Tuite,  who  had  been  rector  of  Belvedere  during  his 
short  time  at  that  school.  There  was  something  bitter-sweet 
that  this  priest  should  place  the  sacred  wafer  in  his  mouth 
...  to  Adam  Holy  Communion  was  a  holy  thing  ...  so 
holy  that  he  had  found  it  hard  to  think  of  it  in  connection 
with  any  breathing  man  but  Father  Innocent.  And  when 
the  breath  went  out  of  Father  Innocent  who  was  so  holy  as 
to  be  worthy  to  take  his  place  ?  .  .  .  He  almost  fancied  now 
as  the  wafer  melted  in  his  mouth  that  he  could  see  Saint 
Innocent  praying  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  that  Adam  should 
be  led  back  to  her  and  her  Son  by  one  as  devoted  to  her 
as  he  himself  .  .  .  and  so  Mary  had  sent  him  to  Father 
Ignatius  .  .  .  and  Father  Ignatius  in  confirmation  as  a  sign 
had  been  inspired  to  direct  him  to  St.  Bernard's  prayer, 
which  as  he  knelt  now  before  her  image  he  repeated  as  a 
joyful  penance :  "Remember,  O  most  pious  Virgin,  that  it 
was  never  heard  of  in  any  age  that  those  who  implored  and 
had  recourse  to  Thy  powerful  protection  were  ever  aban- 
doned by  Thee  .  .  .  were  ever  abandoned  by  Thee  .  .  . 
were  ever  abandoned  .  .  ." 

A  gun  had  gone  off  ...  where  was  he?  He  had  dropped 
his  Prayer  Book,  why  .  .  .  saying  the  prayer  of  St.  Bernard 
after  mass  he  had  fallen  asleep,  that  was  all.  It  was  a  very 
early  mass  ...  he  had  never  gone  to  so  early  a  mass  as 
that  before.  He  walked  home  full  of  pride  and  airily  waved 
to  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde,  who,  as  it  was  Sunday,  was  walk- 
ing instead  of  bicycling  down  Gardiner's  Place. 

While  waiting  for  breakfast  he  considered  the  ways  and 


44  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

means  by  which  he  might  realize  the  dream  of  his  infancy 
and  convert  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  to  Catholicism.  He  was 
sure  that,  if  only  he  could  persuade  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  to 
go  to  confession  to  Father  Ignatius,  all  would  be  well. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  MARCHESA  STARTLES  FATHER  STEELE 

ADAM  asked  Mr.  Macarthy  whether  it  would  be  practicable 
and  proper  for  him  to  invite  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  to  meet 
Father  Ignatius  at  a  tea  party  to  be  given  by  Adam  at  the 
College  Restaurant.  .  .  .  The  idea  seemed  to  give  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy much  gratification ;  for  he  smiled  quite  a  lengthy  smile 
before  delivering  the  opinion  that  he  doubted  if  it  were 
practicable.  "You  see,"  said  he,  "they  are  both  excep- 
tionally busy  men,  and  College  Street  is  a  long  way  to  go." 

"You  think,"  said  Adam,  "it  would  be  no  use  to  ask 
them  ?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  answered  very  thoughtfully :  "It  is  not  for 
me  to  hazard  an  opinion  whether  it  would  or  would  not  be 
of  use.  But  supposing  I  wanted  them  to  meet  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  should  ask  them  to  drink  tea  with  me  at  College 
Street." 

To  this  Adam  returned :  "Don't  you  want  them  to  meet  ?" 

"Why  should  I  want  them  to  meet?"  Mr.  Macarthy  asked. 

"Don't  you  think,"  Adam  said,  "that  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  Dr.  Ryde  to  have  the  privilege  of  meeting  Father 
Ignatius?"  And  Mr.  Macarthy's  smile  broadened  as  he  re- 
turned that  that  seemed  to  him  a  question  better  directed  in 
the  first  place  to  Father  Ignatius. 

At  first  sight  this  seemed  to  Adam  excellent  advice.  But 
he  somehow  felt  a  difficulty  in  asking  Father  Steele  whether 
he  did  not  think  it  would  be  a  privilege  for  Dr.  Hillingdon- 
Ryde  to  meet  him.  So  after  much  thought  the  conversion 
of  that  gentleman  through  his  agency  was  temporarily 
shelved,  but  Adam  did  the  best  he  could  for  him  when  not 

45 


46  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

too  sleepy  to  remember  it  in  his  night  prayers.  His  morn- 
ing prayers  were  rather  hurried  because  of  his  healthy  ap- 
petite for  breakfast.  At  the  back  of  his  mind  lurked  the 
intention  sooner  or  later  to  hear  the  claims  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  put  before  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  in  Father  Steele's 
persuasive  manner.  He  was  sure  that  Dr.  Ryde  was  the 
very  man  to  appreciate  these  claims  if  he  once  knew  what 
they  were. 

It  was  a  surprise  when  coming  in  to  his  guardian's  room 
one  afternoon  early  in  September  to  find  Father  Ignatius 
and  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  seated  in  armchairs  at  either  side 
of  the  fire  (Mr.  Macarthy  was  fond  of  a  fire)  and  drinking 
tea  poured  out  for  them  by  the  fair  hand  of  the  Marchesa 
della  Venasalvatica,  while  somewhere  in  the  background 
hovered  Herr  Behre  and  Mr.  O'Meagher.  For  once  Adam 
was  tongue-tied  by  bewilderment  and  made  no  effort  to 
introduce  himself  into  the  conversation.  He  had  been 
scarcely  more  bewildered  if  the  Marchesa  had  produced  the 
head  of  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  from  the  muffin-dish.  The 
conversation  turned  on  the  subject  of  strikes,  and  the  word 
strike  recalled  to  Adam,  as  he  ate  more  than  his  due  share 
of  muffin,  the  fact  that  the  first  time  he  had  visited  Westland 
Row  Station  that  because  of  a  strike  the  Waterford  Cor- 
ridor Express  was  lying  idle  in  the  bay,  and  that  he  had 
pointed  out  to  Caroline  Brady  and  another  young  lady  whose 
name  he  had  forgotten,  that  the  carriage  at  one  end  of  the 
train  was  number  nineteen  and  that  at  the  other  end  was 
number  thirty-eight,  and  he  had  told  Caroline  Brady  that 
twice  nineteen  was  thirty-eight,  and  Caroline  Brady  had 
said  that  it  was  clever  of  him  to  know  that  .  .  .  the  first 
sweet,  unforgettable  praise  other  than  the  condescension  of 
elders  he  had  heard  from  fair  lips  ...  to  be  sure  Caroline's 
lips  were  not  fair,  hers  was  a  dusky  beauty.  .  .  .  He  won- 
dered why  Father  Ignatius  and  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  were 


THE  MARCHESA  STARTLES  FATHER  STEELE    47 

talking  about  strikes  instead  of  about  the  Blessed  Virgin. 
The  Blessed  Virgin  was  the  most  interesting  of  all  females 
and  almost  any  female  was  more  interesting  than  a  strike. 

He  gathered  that  the  whole  company  were  interested  in 
some  strike  organized  by  those  wicked  men  at  Liberty  Hall. 
Herr  Behre  and  the  Marchesa  appeared  to  be  wholly  in 
favor  of  the  Liberty  Hall  side  of  the  question:  Father 
Ignatius  and  Mr.  O'Meagher  were  opposed  to  it:  Dr.  Hill- 
ingdon-Ryde  and  Mr.  Macarthy  appeared  to  sympathize  with 
both  parties,  the  Presbyterian  minister  explicitly  and  Mr. 
Macarthy  by  implication ;  for  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  mildly 
praised  the  arguments  of  both  parties  while  Mr.  Macarthy 
drove  a  coach  and  four  through  them.  Mr.  O'Meagher  de- 
clared that  it  was  no  use  having  social  trouble  or  expecting 
any  remedy  for  any  evil  or  troubling  about  it  while  Dublin 
Castle  stood  one  stone  upon  another.  Mr.  Macarthy  said 
that  some  of  the  worst  employers  in  Ireland  hated  Dublin 
Castle  as  much  as  Mr.  O'Meagher  did.  .  .  .  The  Marchesa 
said  that  one  of  the  strike  leaders  resembled  Christ,  Mr. 
Macarthy  asked  the  Marchesa  where  she  had  been  to  school. 
.  .  .  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  said  that  Mr.  Macarthy  was 
rather  severe  on  the  Marchesa :  Mr.  Macarthy  said  that  was 
because  he  admired  her  so  much.  .  .  .  Herr  Behre  said  that 
the  cause  of  humanity  was  the  same  all  over  the  world :  Mr. 
Macarthy  said  that  neither  employers  nor  employed  were  in 
the  least  interested  in  humanity  as  it  was  understood  over 
the  rest  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Father  Ignatius  said  with  hum- 
ble pride  that  Ireland  was  the  one  country  that  kept  the 
Faith :  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  "And  what  a  Faith  to  be  sure !" 

Adam  was  a  little  shocked  by  his  guardian's  tone :  he  was 
particularly  pained  at  his  guardian's  flippancy  in  speaking 
thus  of  the  Catholic  religion  before  a  Presbyterian  whom 
he  himself  hoped  sooner  or  later  to  convert.  It  was  per- 
plexing to  hear  the  Presbyterian  turn  on  his  host  to  protest: 


48  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"I  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  the  way  in  which  the 
Irish,  particularly  of  the  lower  classes,  have  been  faithful 
to  their  pastors." 

"Allow  me,"  said  Father  Ignatius,  "it  is  not  to  their  pas- 
tors they  have  been  faithful,  but  to  the  tenets  of  the 
Church." 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  deferentially.  "Is  it  your  experi- 
ence that  the  people  of  Ireland  know  anything  about  the 
tenets  of  the  Church?" 

Father  Ignatius  honestly  wavered:  "I  am  not  a  parish 
priest,"  said  he,  "and  can  produce  no  evidence,  but  I  believe 
it  to  be  so." 

"It  is  my  experience,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "that  the  noble- 
minded  take  the  nobility  of  other's  minds  for  granted  .  .  ." 

Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  tapped  the  table  approvingly  and 
Herr  Behre  followed  his  example.  It  occurred  to  Adam 
that  he  might  also  do  so,  and  he  did.  He  was  gratified  by 
his  guardian  saying  something  agreeable  to  Father  Ignatius. 
Mr.  O'Meagher  said  that  there  would  be  no  true  nobility  in 
Ireland  while  Dublin  Castle  remained.  This  also  seemed  to 
Adam  a  good  point;  for  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole,  he  suddenly 
remembered,  had  the  Castle  behind  him,  and  although  he 
did  not  dislike  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole  as  much  as  he  used  to, 
he  felt  that  Mr.  O'Toole  was  not  truly  noble  .  .  .  thence 
his  mind  traveled  to  the  portrait  of  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn 
at  the  National  Gallery  and  he  wondered  if  Sir  David  had 
been  truly  noble  .  .  .  was  a  baronet  noble  by  right  of  birth? 
Suddenly  he  heard  himself  addressing  the  Marchesa.  "Was 
that  baronet  you  painted  truly  noble,  ma'am?"  he  asked. 
All  eyes  were  instantly  turned  on  him  and  he  thought  that 
all  at  once  would  rebuke  him,  but  the  Marchesa  merely 
answered,  "Of  course  he  was,"  just  as  if  she  had  expected 
him  to  put  the  question  .  .  .  and  the  general  talk  went  on 
as  before  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  Adam  decided 
that  rag-bag  or  not  there  was  something  truly  noble  about 


JHE  MARCHESA  STARTLES  FATHER  STEELE     49 

the  Marchesa  .  .  .  and  he  decided  that  she  was  not  ninety 
...  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  Barbara  Burns  was 
a  trifle  jealous  of  the  Marchesa  .  .  .  why  jealous  of  the 
Marchesa?  .  .  .  without  clearly  formulating  an  answer  he 
found  himself  looking  indignantly  at  Mr.  Macarthy,  and 
then  Mr.  Macarthy  happened  to  turn  and  look  at  him  and 
smiled,  and  Adam  smiled  back.  ...  It  was  impossible  to  be 
indignant  with  Mr.  Macarthy;  he  was  such  a  simple  old 
gentleman. 

He  noticed  now  that  when  the  Marchesa  spoke  it  was 
always  to  Mr.  Macarthy  that  she  addressed  herself ;  and  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  she  was  not  speaking  she  looked 
at  him  as  if  she  were  thinking  of  something  to  say  to  him. 
On  the  other  hand,  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  and  generally  Herr 
Behre  addressed  themselves  to  her.  Father  Ignatius  ad- 
dressed himself  to  everyone  except  her,  and  Mr.  O'Meagher 
had  the  effect  of  unburdening  himself  to  an  audience  larger 
than  the  room  could  contain.  Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that 
he  spoke  every  word  distinctly,  Mr.  Macarthy  might  have 
been  talking  to  himself.  Adam  felt  out  of  it  ...  he  did 
not  like  feeling  out  of  it,  so  he  sidled  round  towards  the 
Marchesa  until  he  touched  her.  The  next  instant  he  was 
whisked  up  in  her  bony  arms  and  deposited  in  her  bonier 
lap  while  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  "Now  I  know  of  whom 
you  remind  me." 

Adam  struggled  between  two  emotions,  pride  at  being 
signalized  for  attention  by  this  mysterious  gentlewoman  and 
horror  at  being  publicly  caressed,  more  particularly  in  the 
presence  of  Father  Ignatius  ...  he  found  himself  already 
asking  his  conscience  whether  he  should  have  to  confess  to 
Father  Ignatius  what  Father  Ignatius  himself  had  wit- 
nessed :  the  holy  man  must  have  perceived  that  he  had  fallen 
through  sheer  inadvertency  .  .  .  and  could  a  sin  be  a  sin 
if  you  had  no  sinful  intention  and  took  no  pleasure  in  it? 
.  He  tried  to  remember  if  the  Marchesa  was  married 


50  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

.  .  .  Marchesa  meant  marchioness,  the  wife  of  a  marquis 
or  marchesi,  as  they  called  him  in  Italian  .  .  .  therefore  she 
had  a  husband;  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  remind  her  of  him; 
"How's  the  Marchesi,"  he  asked,  but  the  Marchesa  was  talk- 
ing to  Mr.  Macarthy  and  perhaps  accidentally  ignored  the 
question.  His  instinct  forbade  him  to  repeat  it. 

The  Marchesa's  lap  was  far  from  luxurious,  and  her 
atmosphere  at  such  close  quarters  savored  not  too  delicately 
of  drink  and  tobacco  .  .  .  but  Adam  was  born  into  a  world 
which  reeked  of  these  odors,  and  her  lap  was  as  restful  as 
his  ancient  refuse  heap  which  served  him  as  bed  for  the  first 
seven  years  and  more  of  his  life  in  the  corner  of  the  crazy 
tenement  in  Count  Alley.  .  .  .  Also  a  very  highly  romantic 
thought  occurred  to  him,  what  was  it  that  Hamlet  said  to 
Ophelia,  and  she  and  he  watching  a  play  ?  "Lady,  shall  I  lie 
in  your  lap?" 

He  was  startled  to  hear  the  rebellious  daughter  of  Lord 
Derrydown  answer: 

"You're  dreaming."  ...  As  he  was  unable  to  say  whether 
he  was  dreaming  or  not,  she  suggested,  "You're  dreaming 
that  I  am  Ophelia."  Nothing  could  have  been  further  from 
Adam's  mind,  and  he  was  on  the  verge  of  laughter  when 
she  murmured  in  his  ear  as  a  confidence  between  them  which 
even  Mr.  Macarthy  might  not  share,  "He  once  played  Ham- 
let to  my  Ophelia."  Here  was  indeed  a  revelation,  for 
there  was  no  need  to  tell  Adam  that  he  was  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn.  .  .  .  But  Adam  wondered  how  could  a  lady 
and  gentleman,  and  they  both  of  title,  noble  beings  more  or 
less,  condescend  to  take  part  in  a  stage  play.  "Was  the 
baronet  a  play-actor  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Sir  David  was  everything  under  the  sun,"  she  declared 
almost  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  Father  Ignatius.  "There 
was  nothing  that  man  could  not  do." 

Adam  answered  with  half -conscious  irony,  "He  must  have 
been  pretty  nippy." 


THE  MARCHESA  STARTLES  FATHER  STEELE     51 

The  Marchesa  was  indulgent,  albeit  hurt.  "That  is  hardly 
the  word  to  use  of  a  great  man,"  she  said,  "and  he  was  one 
of  the  greatest  of  all  men." 

"Did  you,"  said  Adam  thoughtfully,  "did  you  think  more 
of  him  than  that  chap  at  Liberty  Hall  who  you  said  was  like 
Christ?" 

"Oh,  he  was  incomparably  superior,"  said  the  Marchesa 
without  hesitation,  and  Adam  was  puzzled. 

"I  didn't  know  there  was  anyone  superior  to  Christ," 
said  he. 

"Sir  David  was  not,  perhaps,  superior  to  Christ  as  a 
Christian,"  the  Marchesa  rejoined,  with  as  much  thought 
as  her  mentality  allowed ;  "in  fact,  he  didn't  call  himself  a 
Christian  .  .  .  though  I'm  sure  he  was  a  good  Catholic  in 
his  own  way  ...  he  was  always  much  better  than  I ;  but, 
then,  I  was  never  religious  ...  at  least,  not  as  religion  was 
understood  by  my  mother :  she  was  a  very  good  woman, 
poor  dear,  and  deeply  religious;  she  and  I  hated  each 
other  .  .  ." 

"How  could  she  hate  you  if  she  was  religious?"  Adam 
asked. 

"Because  of  my  being  irreligious,  of  course,"  the  Mar- 
chesa insisted.  "Religious  people  always  hate  irreligioils 
people  .  .  .  and  it's  perfectly  right  they  should.  If  I  ever 
had  a  religion  I  should  hate  everybody  of  every  other  re- 
ligion. It  isn't  honest  to  believe  anything  yourself  and  not 
to  hate  anybody  who  believes  that  what  you  believe  is 
wrong  ..." 

Adam  did  not  clearly  follow  the  Marchesa's  argument. 
"Did  the  baronet  believe  the  same  as  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"Sometimes  he  did  and  sometimes  he  didn't,"  the  Marchesa 
answered,  adding,  after  a  pause,  "At  least,  so  far  as  I  re- 
member it  was  like  that." 

Adam  demanded  something  definite.  "Did  he  tell  you 
when  he  did  and  didn't?"  he  said. 


52  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Beneath  his  bones  he  felt  the  Marchesa's  bones  stretch 
as  though  she  were  yawning.  "Did  he  tell  me  when  he  did 
and  didn't  .  .  .  did  he  tell  me  when  he  did  and  didn't? 
Dear  me,  my  dear  child,  it's  too  long  ago  to  remember  now." 

But  Adam  was  not  to  be  gainsaid.  "If  he  was  such  a 
remarkable  chap  as  all  that,"  he  suggested,  "why  didn't  you 
keep  a  diary?"  At  this  the  Marchesa  laughed  outright. 

"Stephen,"  she  called  to  Mr.  Macarthy,  "Adam  wants  to 
know  why  I  didn't  keep  a  diary  all  about  David  Byron- 
Quinn.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  telling  him?" 

Ere  Mr.  Macarthy  could  answer,  Father  Ignatius  sprang 
to  his  feet.  "I  must  go,"  he  said  hurriedly ;  "my  duties 
call  me.  My  duties  call  me,"  he  repeated,  "or  I  would 
not  go." 


ADAM  wondered  why  Father  Ignatius  so  suddenly  departed : 
or  would  have  wondered  had  he  allowed  himself  to  doubt 
that  saintly  man's  word.  He  felt  the  priest  was  shocked: 
but  he  did  not  appear  to  be  shocked  by  him;  for  Adam, 
opening  the  door  for  him,  was  patted  affectionately  on  the 
head  and  in  the  gentlest  tone  admonished  to  keep  on  being 
a  good  boy.  Seemingly  the  Church  did  not  hold  the  sitting 
of  a  young  male  in  a  married  woman's  lap  to  be  a  mortal 
sin.  Perhaps  Father  Ignatius  blamed  the  Marchesa.  That, 
Adam  felt,  was  not  altogether  fair:  he  had  wished  the 
Marchesa  to  take  notice  of  and  even,  perhaps,  to  caress 
him,  although  he  had  not  been  prepared  for  the  form  which 
her  endearments  had  taken.  Still,  he  was  quite  sure  that 
her  caresses  were  as  parental  as  that  of  any  other  elderly 
person:  they  had  in  them  nothing  reminiscent  of  Caroline 
Brady  or  even  Josephine  O'Meagher.  The  lightest  touch 
of  Barbara's  finger-tip  burnt  hotter  than  the  Marchesa's 
kiss. 

"I  frightened  your  holy  man  away,"  the  Marchesa  was 
saying  as  Adam  reentered  the  room. 

"Are  you  proud  of  that?"  Mr.  Macarthy  asked  drily. 

She  shot  a  tempestuous  glance  at  him,  "Do  you  think  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed  ?" 

"I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  being  silly,"  Mr. 
Macarthy  answered,  and  silenced  her  retort  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand:  "We  are  discussing  something  more  important 
than  even  our  own  love  affairs." 

53 


54  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"I  am  not  sure,"  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde  argued,  "that  there 
is  anything  more  important  than  love." 

The  Marchesa  turned  to  him  gratefully,  "How  perfectly 
ripping  of  you  to  say  that !" 

The  minister  bowed  deferentially,  but  Mr.  Macarthy  in- 
sisted, despite  a  Hear,  Hear !  from  Mr.  Behre,  echoed  by  Mr. 
O'Meagher,  "At  the  present  moment  we  are  discussing  a 
Strike  which  involves  our  daily  bread.  I  am  more  inter- 
ested in  my  own  daily  bread  than  in  other  persons'  daily 
heart-burns." 

"I  protest,"  said  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde,  "I  protest."  But 
the  Marchesa,  more  sensibly,  replied,  albeit  with  a  pout, 
"You  never  understood  me  in  the  least.  But,  anyhow,  go 
on  with  your  beastly  old  Strike." 

"It  is  not  my  strike,"  Mr.  Macarthy  replied.  "If  I  had 
my  way  there  would  be  no  strike.  But,  since  there  is  one, 
I'm  prepared  to  stake  my  all  on  seeing,  firstly,  that  the  men 
are  not  beaten,  and,  secondly,  that  they  are  not  encouraged 
to  take  such  risks  lightly  again." 

"I  am  entirely  with  you,"  said  Dr.  Ryde.  "I  think  you 
are,  it  may  be,  right,"  declared  Herr  Behre.  But  Mr. 
O'Meagher  shook  his  head:  "The  Castle  is  behind  all  this 
trouble.  It's  a  trick  to  get  the  Irish  proletariat  into  the 
grip  of  the  English  Labor  party:  so  that  they'll  put  their 
bellies — I  beg  your  pardon,  Marchesa — their  stomachs  .  .  ." 

"Say  bellies,  and  don't  be  an  idiot,"  the  Marchesa 
broke  in. 

"...  Their  .  .  .  their  whatever  you  may  call  'ems  be- 
fore their  country,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  eloquently  perorated. 

"What  is  the  use  of  your  country  if  it  won't  support 
you?"  Mr.  Macarthy  inquired. 

"That's  a  question  for  a  Macarthy  to  ask  an  O'Mea- 
gher !"  protested  the  Laisridere. 

"I  should  not  ask  it  if  it  were  not,"  Mr.  Macarthy  de- 
clared. 


ADAM  LOOKS  BACKWARD  55 

"Would  you  blame  Sweet  Granuaile  .  . ."  Mr.  O'Meagher 
commenced,  but  Mr.  Macarthy  cut  him  short,  "I'd  blame 
the  canting  jackass  who  invented  her.  I've  no  more  pa- 
tience with  silly  patriots  than  I  have  with  silly  lovers." 

"Are  you  sure  you  were  never  a  silly  lover  yourself?" 
the  Marchesa  blurted  indignantly. 

"To  be  sure  I  was,"  Mr.  Macarthy  gently  replied,  "And 
a  silly  patriot  too.  And  a  silly  everything  under  the  sun. 
And  have  a  vast  and  inexhaustible  fund  of  silliness  in  me 
still.  .  .  .  But  at  least  I  do  aim  at  the  mark  of  commo» 
sense,  and  do  not  consider  it  a  meritorious  deed  to  appear 
a  bigger  fool  than  I  am." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  thundered  with  a  triumphant  laugh: 
"I'd  rather  look  a  bigger  fool  than  I  am  than  be  a  bigger 
fool  than  I  look";  but  on  Mr.  Macarthy  replying  that  they 
need  not  discuss  impossibilities,  he  fell  abruptly  silent. 

Adam  looked  pityingly  at  Josephine's  father:  his  nat- 
urally bright  and  jolly  face  had  taken  on  the  gloom  of  one 
brooding  o'er  ancient  wrong.  At  times  he  threw  his  host  a 
glance  almost  of  hate ;  and  yet,  Adam  knew  that  few  loved 
and  admired  Mr.  Macarthy  more  than  did  Mr.  O'Meagher. 
Adam  thought  it  silly  of  Mr.  O'Meagher  to  behave  like 
that:  silly  and  babyish  .  .  .  unworthy  of  Josephine's 
father:  he  was  positively  making  faces  at  his  host,  you 
might  almost  say  putting  out  his  tongue.  .  .  .  Now  was  it 
to  be  understood  why  Mrs.  O'Meagher,  despite  her  lesser 
intelligence,  laid  down  the  law  at  Capua  Terrace !  .  .  .  And 
yet  he,  Adam  himself,  had  been  making  faces  at  his  guar- 
dian a  little  while  ago,  and  only  relinquished  that  occupation 
when  disarmed  by  a  smile.  .  .  .  What  was  it  gave  this 
funny  old  fogey  the  double  power  to  wound  and  salve  with 
two  successive  flashes  of  his  eye.  The  minister,  rising  to 
go,  towered  above  him,  massive,  ponderously  magnificent,  a 
perfect  figure  of  a  healthy,  amiable,  Samson.  A  few  feet 
away  was  Herr  Behre,  as  tall  as  Dr.  Ryde  and  as  straight, 


56  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

but  gaunt  and  haggard,  colorless  of  skin  and  beard:  an 
ancient  Daniel.  Both  looked  towards  Mr.  Macarthy,  Adam 
thought,  as  he  had  once  seen  a  pair  of  Guinness's  dray 
horses  look  at  their  driver :  as  it  were  affectionately  curious 
of  the  use  to  which  he  would  next  put  their  great  limbs. 

It  seemed  to  Adam,  as  he  gazed  at  the  trio,  that  he  was 
fonder  of  Dr.  Ryde  and  Herr  Behre  than  he  was  of  Mr. 
Macarthy:  just  as  he  was  really  fonder  of  the  dray  horses 
with  their  deferential  eyes  than  of  their  master,  who,  though 
he  might  never  whip  them,  yet  had  it  always  in  his  power  to 
do  so.  Adam  felt  that  Mr.  Macarthy,  though  the  mildest 
spoken  person  he  had  ever  met,  would  cut  a  man  in  two 
with  a  whip  if  his  intellect  prompted  him  to  that  solution 
of  a  problem  he  thought  of  matter.  .  .  .  On  the  other  hand, 
he  never  teased  you  with  a  sight  of  the  whip.  Indeed,  he 
spoke  as  though  whips  had  no  existence  even  in  his  thoughts. 
In  that  he  differed  even  from  Father  Innocent,  who  palpably 
dreaded  punishment,  though  more  for  the  sake  of  others 
than  for  himself. 

His  mind  went  back  to  the  first  day  he  had  sat  in  that 
same  room  with  Herr  Behre,  Mr.  O'Meagher  and  their  host 
...  it  was  barely  six  months  ago,  and  yet  how  completely 
his  world  had  altered  since  then  .  .  .  the  most  vital  moment 
of  his  life  had  been  that  when  Mr.  Macarthy  had  brought 
him  to  the  window  to  let  the  spring  sun  fall  upon  his  face 
while  he  asked  him  whether  he  was  willing  to  trust  him.  he 
remembered  the  very  words  as  they  looked  in  each  other's 
eyes :  "Do  you  feel  you  could  trust  me  as  you  trusted  Father 
Innocent?"  and  how  he  had  recalled  his  ancient  jealousy 
because  he  had  first  seen  him  in  a  photograph  with  Josephine 
sitting  in  his  lap,  and  how  Mr.  Macarthy  went  on  because 
of  his  silence,  "I  don't  want  you  to  trust  me  without  ques- 
tion .  .  .  but  so  far  that  I  can  trust  you  in  turn  ...  to  do 
nothing  .  .  .  behind  my  back,"  and  how  he,  Adam,  at  long 


ADAM  LOOKS  BACKWARD  57 

length  had  answered  firmly  that  he  could  trust  him  .  .  . 
that  he  was  sure  of  that  .  .  .  yes,  and  he  had  been  sure  of 
it  ever  since. 

It  is  possible  that,  as  he  walked  back  with  Herr  Behre 
that  spring  night  six  months  ago  from  Mountjoy  Square, 
Adam  saw  his  future  through  too  rosy  spectacles.  It  is 
possible  that  he  thought  the  new  guardianship  would  weigh 
lightly  on  his  shoulders,  and  that  at  thirteen  he  would  be 
even  freer  than  he  was  in  the  period  between  his  father's 
death  and  the  rule  of  Father  Muldoon,  S.J.  It  is  possible 
that  he  fancied  himself  already  a  grown  man  then.  If  so, 
he  was  undeceived;  for  Mr.  Macarthy  had  placed  him  in 
leading-strings  from  which  there  had  been  no  breaking 
away.  Indeed,  it  was  now,  as  he  believed  himself  to  be  on 
the  point  of  leaving  childhood  behind,  he  found  himself  for 
the  first  time  consistently  treated  as  a  child.  Not  that  Mr. 
Macarthy  was  wanting  in  respect  for  him:  if  hardly  so  flat- 
tering as  Herr  Behre  and  Mr.  O'Meagher,  he  was  as  punc- 
tilious and  perhaps  more  urbane  than  either.  But  he  had 
perfectly  clear-cut  ideas  as  to  what  Adam  ought  to  do,  and, 
in  the  absence  of  equally  clear  objections  on  Adam's  part, 
he  saw  that  it  was  done. 

Adam's  soul  was  still,  in  those  early  days  of  his  guardian- 
ship, hot  with  indignation  from  the  force  of  Miss  Gannon's 
assault  upon  his  person.  He  almost  demanded  that  his 
guardian  should  allow  him  to  seek  another  lodging;  but 
Mr.  Macarthy  merely  laughed  at  the  story  of  the  battery, 
and  came  round  to  St.  George's  Place  to  interview  her. 
.  .  .  Adam  was  tempted  to  rebellion  to  see  them  part 
friends.  "That  will  be  all  right,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said;  "Miss 
Gannon  may  have  a  dirty  temper,  but  it's  the  cleanest  house 
of  its  kind  I've  seen  in  Dublin ;  also,  she's  honest  and,  within 
her  limitations,  well-meaning." 

"D'you  mean,"  said  Adam,  "that  I've  got  to  stay  there?" 
His  tongue  was  querulous. 


58  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"You've  got  to  stay  there,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "and  be 
grateful  to  be  allowed  to  stay  there." 

Adam  frowned.  "If  she  attacks  me  again,"  he  mur- 
mured .  .  . 

"She  will  not  attack  you  again,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "un- 
less you  deserve  it."  There  was  something  in  his  tone 
which  forbade  rejoinder.  "You  need  not  go  with  her  to 
eleven  o'clock  mass  any  more." 

In  these  unregenerate  days  Adam  brightened  at  this ;  for 
he  had  taken  it  to  mean  that  his  new  guardian  considered 
it  unnecessary  for  a  youth  of  his  intellectual  attainments 
to  go  to  mass  at  all,  yet  he  had  a  misgiving:  "I  don't  think 
Father  Innocent  would  like  me  to  give  up  going  to  mass," 
he  said. 

"I'm  sure  he  would  not,"  was  Mr.  Macarthy's  unexpected 
rejoinder,  "but  I  don't  think  he  would  rather  have  you  go 
with  Miss  Gannon  to  eleven  than  with  me  to  twelve."  He 
added  that  if  Adam  thought  otherwise  that  would  be  a 
matter  for  his  conscience,  but  he  did  not  advance  this  objec- 
tion. He  was  not  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  spending 
over  an  hour  in  church  instead  of  half  an  hour,  but  he  pre- 
ferred Mr.  Macarthy's  company  to  Miss  Gannon's.  Yet  was 
he  mildly  surprised  at  the  notion  of  Mr.  Macarthy  going  to 
mass.  Mr.  Behre  never  went  at  all,  and  Mr.  O'Meagher 
only  under  protest,  to  please  his  wife ;  here  was  a  gentleman 
as  liberal-minded  as  either  yet  so  pious  as  to  be  willing 
even  to  sit  out  a  sermon  by  Father  Strong,  than  which  there 
could  be  few  severer  trials  of  anyone's  patience. 

"Are  you  fond  of  sermons,  sir?"  he  asked  as  they  came 
out  of  church  for  the  first  time  together. 

"You  might  as  well  ask  me  if  I  am  fond  of  religion," 
said  Mr.  Macarthy  with  a  gentle  smile,  ignoring  his  com- 
panion's mechanical  effort  to  reach  the  holy  water  font. 
Adam  said  he  had  never  thought  of  anyone  being  fond  of 


ADAM  LOOKS  BACKWARD  59- 

religion.     "Come,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "you  know  you  have- 
been  taught  to  sing  'I  love  my  holy  faith'." 

Adam  was  much  puzzled.     "I  love  my  holy  faith  right 
,    enough,"  said  he;  "at  least,  I  suppose  I  do;  but  faith  is 
"  what  you  believe,  isn't  it?  ...  and  religion  has  nothing  to 
do  with  that,  has  it?" 

"Hasn't  it?"  was  all  that  Mr.  Macarthy  had  said  upon 
that  occasion;  but  Adam  returned  to  the  attack.  "Look 
here,"  said  he,  "sermons,  anyhow,  have  nothing  to  do  with 
what  you  believe." 

Mr.  Macarthy  answered  pensively:  "To  tell  you  what 
sermons  have  to  do  with  what  I  believe  would  be  a  very 
long  story.  And,  to  be  quite  frank  with  you,  I  should  say 
they  have  nothing  to  do  with  what  most  of  the  people  you 
were  brought  up  among  believe.  And  that  is  for  the  simple 
reason  that  they  believe  in  nothing  ...  at  all  events,  noth- 
ing that  can  be  expressed  in  words." 

"Is  there  anything,"  Adam  asked,  "that  can't  be  ex- 
pressed in  words?" 

"Ask  your  own  experience,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

Adam  returned  that  he  found  it  easier  to  ask  him,  say- 
ing, "I  don't  rightly  know  whether  I've  ever  had  any  ex- 
perience." 

And  then  he  remembered  that  Mr.  Macarthy  had  taken 
him  very  gently  by  the  arm  and  said :  "My  poor  friend,  I 
feared  you  might  have  had  so  much  as  to  be  disgusted  with 
the  world  you  know,"  and  Adam  had  answered  that  he  sup- 
posed it  was  pretty  disgusting,  but  somehow  it  had  always, 
interested  him ;  and  Mr.  Macarthy  had  declared,  "That's; 
the  answer  I  like  to  hear:  it  shows  that  your  experiences; 
have  not  been  wasted  on  you." 

And  then  Adam  had  asked  him,  "What  exactly,"  repeat- 
ing the  words  to  emphasize  them,  "What  exactly  is  ex- 
perience?" and  Mr.  Macarthy  had  replied:  "Experience, 
according  to  my  lights,  is  exactly  everything." 


60  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Half  a  year  had  passed  since  these  things  were  said,  and 
there  was  nothing  in  that  half  year  that  did  not  come  back 
to  Adam's  mind  as  he  watched,  by  the  glow  of  the  flicker- 
ing firelight,  the  faces  of  Mr.  Macarthy,  Herr  Behre,  Mr. 
O'Meagher,  and,  startling  to  behold,  the  Marchesa,  looking 
young  as  when  she  was  Daphne  Page. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  MARCHESA  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT 

To  Adam's  mind  it  was,  indeed,  startling  to  see  how  young 
the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica  looked  in  the  flickering 
firelight ;  true,  all  the  company  looked  young  in  that  ruddy 
light;  even  the  gaunt  Herr  Behre,  with  his  sweeping  beard, 
a  lean  Father  Christmas  was  rejuvenated.  Mr.  Macarthy 
himself  seemed  almost  a  boy.  But,  to  Adam,  the  effect  on 
the  woman  was  the  most  amazing  ...  it  was  easy  enough 
to  understand  now  why  she  had  had  many  lovers  ...  at 
least  it  was  easy  to  understand  why  many  had  sought  her, 
but  he  could  not  understand  how  any  woman  could  love 
more  than  one.  Sorely  as  he  despised  his  mother,  and  much 
as  he  doubted  whether  she  had  loved  the  man  she  called  his 
father,  he  had  never  thought  of  the  possibility  of  her  loving 
anyone  else  .  .  .  possibly  because  he  found  it  impossible 
to  love  her,  he  had  not  thought  about  the  subject  at  all,  he 
had  never  even  wondered  why  she  did  not  marry  O'Toole. 
.  .  .  He  felt  he  belonged  to  the  world  he  saw  round  him  in 
this  room,  not  to  the  world  that  lived  in  Pleasant  Street, 
much  less  that  into  which  he  had  been  born  in  Count  Alley. 
And  they  were  quite  separate  worlds,  revolving  in  orbits 
absolutely  distinct. 

He  looked  hard  at  the  Marchesa ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Mr.  Macarthy,  and  she  was  talking  to  him  eagerly.  Adam 
heeded  not  what  she  said;  he  did  not  see  her  as  what  she 
was  but  rather  as  what  she  had  been  .  .  .  someone  had  told 
him  that  she  had  been  to  school  with  Lady  Bland  .  .  .  that 
was  nonsense :  Lady  Bland  was  an  old  woman  of  that  kind 

61 


62  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

who  was  never  young  enough  to  go  to  school.  He  could 
not  conceive  of  Lady  Bland  as  ever  having  long  hair  down 
her  back.  Adam  associated  the  idea  of  youth  with  the 
possession  of  long  hair  down  your  back — possibly  you  might 
wear  it  in  a  plait — but  long  hair  you  must  have,  and,  for 
preference,  it  should  be  loose.  Caroline  Brady's  hair  had 
been  loose  .  .  .  and  so  had  Josephine  O'Meagher's;  Bar- 
bara Burns  wore  hers  short,  but  she  did  not  put  it  up,  and 
if  she  had  allowed  it  to  grow  he  was  sure  it  would  have 
flown  down  her  back  in  enough  volume  for  her  to  play  Lady 
Godiva  in  it.  He  was  tickled  by  the  idea  of  Barbara  Burns 
playing  Lady  Godiva  and  of  his  playing  Peeping  Tom  .  .  . 
no,  Peeping  Tom  was  a  silly  ass,  a  dirty  little  snivelling 
ass ;  if  he  wanted  to  see  Lady  Godiva  he  ought  to  have  up 
and  said  so  ...  what  would  happen  to  Peeping  Tom  if  he 
had  the  pluck  to  say  what  he  wanted  ...  he  could  not  re- 
member enough  about  the  atmosphere  in  which  Peeping 
Tom  lived  to  come  to  any  conclusion  in  this  matter;  he 
could  not  even  remember  whether  Tom  were  a  real  or  a 
fictitious  person.  Plainly  said,  he  knew  even  less  about 
Peeping  Tom  than  about  Lady  Godiva;  for  her  he  could 
visualize  quite  clearly  (assisted  by  the  pictures  in  the 
National  Gallery),  whereas  Peeping  Tom  was  just  a  pair 
of  greedy  eyes  pitted  in  a  fool's  skull. 

The  Marchesa,  in  the  days  when  she  was  Daphne  Page, 
might  have  been  rather  like  Lady  Godiva.  After  all,  she 
was  a  lady  too,  the  daughter  of  a  belted  earl  ...  he  knew 
that  earls  wore  belts,  because  there  was  a  song  about  it, 
(Cook's  son,  duke's  son,  son  of  a  belted  earl),  the  meaning 
of  which  was  recondite :  it  referred  to  something  before  his 
time  .  .  .  suddenly  he  heard  his  voice,  again,  aloud,  "Why 
didn't  you  marry  the  baronet?"  he  asked. 

Adam  felt  Mr.  O'Meagher's  warm  hand  across  his  mouth, 
and  heard  him  murmur,  "Whisht,  will  ye?  that's  no  ques- 
tion to  ask  a  lady";  but  the  Marchesa  broke  off  in  the 


THE  MARCHESA  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT         63 

middle  of  a  sentence  and  turned  to  him.  "Did  you  ask  me 
something,  child?"  she  said. 

Adam  went  over  to  her.  "I  did  ask  you  something,"  he 
answered,  "but  I  didn't  mean  to." 

"Didn't  mean  to?"  the  Marchesa  repeated,  almost  re- 
sentfully. 

Adam  explained.  "I  wanted  to  know  it,  but  I  had  no 
right  to  ask  it — it  was  a  question  about  yourself." 

"About  myself?"  said  the  Marchesa;  "you  need  never  be 
afraid  of  asking  me  any  question  about  myself." 

"Well,  it  was  about  yourself  and  the  baronet,"  Adam 
said.  The  Marchesa  laughed  a  little  scornfully.  "Were 
you  afraid  to  ask  me  about  myself  and  the  baronet?  You're 
as  bad  as  Father  Steele;  no  one  need  be  afraid  to  ask  me 
about  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn.  What  was  it?" 

"Then,"  said  Adam,  point  blank,  "why  didn't  you  marry 
him  ?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  the  Marchesa,  'that's  a  long  story 
why  I  didn't  marry  him.  There  were  all  sorts  of  reasons; 
but  one  of  them  was  that  he  was  married  already." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  for  some  vague  reason  recoiling,  "was 
he?  Then,  of  course,  you  couldn't,  could  you?" 

"No,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "I  could  not." 

"And,"  said  Adam,  still  inquiring,  "did  you  do  that  pic- 
ture of  him  for  his  lady  wife?" 

The  Marchesa's  answer  came  sharply:  "I  did  not;  I'd 
have  seen  her  damned  first." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  and  retired,  a  little  scared,  from  the 
circle  by  the  fire.  He  sat  down  again  in  obscurity  to  dove- 
tail this  fresh  piece  of  knowledge  into  its  proper  place  in 
this  new  world  he  was  building  round  him.  The  Marchesa, 
seen  from  where  he  sat,  again  looked  young,  but  when  he 
had  gone  up  close  to  her  he  had  realized  what  an  aged  and 
worn,  passion-worn,  face  she  had.  When  she  answered  his 
question  as  to  the  baronet's  wife,  there  had  been  a  tigerish 


64  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

snap  of  the  jaws — perhaps  it  was  as  well  for  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn  that  he  had  perished  in  Kordofan  rather  than 
run  the  risk  of  coming  to  an  end  at  her  hands.  It  was 
easy  to  imagine  the  Marchesa  killing  a  man,  it  was  easy  to 
imagine  her  doing  almost  anything  which  Lady  Bland  would 
think  it  wrong  to  do  ...  and  yet  they  had  gone  to  school 
together  and  learnt  and  repeated  the  same  lessons  day  by 
day  .  .  .  no,  one  thing  already  he  was  old  enough  to  see: 
the  Marchesa  had  never  learnt  any  lesson,  never  could  learn 
one  while  she  walked  the  earth.  She  was  unteachable. 

Suddenly,  and  without  giving  any  reason,  she  rose  to  go. 
The  minister  asked  her  which  was  her  way,  and  she 
answered  vaguely,  "The  tram."  He  offered  to  see  her  to 
it,  and  they  left  together.  Mr.  O'Meagher  smiled  mildly 
when  they  were  gone.  "They  say  Hillingdon-Ryde  is  a  bit 
of  a  lad,"  said  he. 

Herr  Behre,  as  no  one  answered,  said,  as  one  called  upon 
to  say  something,  "Is  he,  and  why  not?" 

"And  why  not?"  repeated  Mr.  O'Meagher;  "indeed,  I 
think  a  clergyman  of  no  denomination,  not  even  Presby- 
terian itself,  should  be  too  fond  of  women." 

"Should  anyone  be  too  fond  of  women?"  Mr.  Macarthy 
asked  cuttingly. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  retorted:  "That's  a  question  you  might 
ask  yourself;  for  there's  some  say  you  know  a  little 
about  it." 

"I  know  a  little  about  a  great  many  things,"  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy said  calmly;  "unfortunately,  it  is  very  little;  but  I 
do  know  that,  whatever  Ryde  may  or  may  not  do,  he  is  a 
gentleman." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  returned,  rather  in  sorrow  than  in  anger, 
"Is  that  to  mean  I'm  not  ?" 

"Rubbish,"  said  his  host;  "you  know  it  means  nothing 
of  the  kind,  but  you're  getting  no  wiser  as  you  grow  older." 

Adam  thought  that  Mr.  O'Meagher  was  going  to  return 


THE  MARCHESA  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT         65 

an  answer  that  would  make  things  no  better,  and  perhaps 
Herr  Behre  thought  so  too;  for  he  turned  the  conversation, 
addressing  himself  to  Adam,  "I  hope  that  you  grow  wiser 
as  you  grow  older." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  snapped  out:  "How  can  he  grow  wiser 
and  he  going  to  no  school  ?" 

"Is  schooling  necessary  to  wisdom?"  Mr.  Macarthy  asked. 

"It's  generally  considered  so,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  declared. 

"By  whom?"  asked  Mr.  Macarthy. 

"By  everybody  except  yourself,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

The  fire-light  showed  Mr.  Macarthy  smiling.  "Prove 
to  me  that  I  am  wrong."  But  Mr.  O'Meagher  turned 
away  without  attempting  to  do  it;  he  merely  said  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  looked  out  into  the  night  that  there  were 
some  people  with  whom  it  was  impossible  to  argue.  Behind 
his  back,  Mr.  Macarthy  and  Herr  Behre  exchanged  smiles. 

Suddenly  Mr.  O'Meagher  turned  to  fire  the  shot :  "Any- 
how, Adam  ought  to  be  doing  something." 

Mr.  Macarthy  said  gently:  "He  is  doing  something." 

"What?"  snapped  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

And,  in  the  same  gentle  tone,  Mr.  Macarthy  answered: 
"Unlearning  the  nonsense  your  namesake  taught  him  at 
Belvedere." 

"I  never  held  with  the  Jesuit  teaching,"  Mr.  O'Meagher 
expostulated.  "I  never  met  a  Jesuit  that  was  a  true  Irish- 
man ;  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  they're  Jesuits  first  and 
what  you  like  afterwards  .  .  ." 

"At  the  bottom  of  their  hearts,"  Mr.  Macarthy  broke  in, 
"they  are  what  they  like  first  and  Jesuits  afterwards." 

"You're  cynical  about  everything,"  cried  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

"I'm  cynical  about  nothing,"  returned  Mr.  Macarthy. 

And  here  Herr  Behre  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  host's 
shoulder,  "No,  my  friend,  I  have  never  known  you  cynical 
about  anything  except  yourself." 

"If  I  was  that,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "it  was  only  pose." 


66  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Here  Mr.  O'Meagher  was  understood  to  say  that  he  hated 
pose  of  any  kind.  At  all  events,  he  used  many  rhetorical 
phrases  which  seemed  to  Adam  in  their  essence  to  bear  this1 
construction,  but  neither  Mr.  Behre  nor  Mr.  Macarthy  paid 
any  attention  to  them :  they  talked  together  in  low  tones  by 
the  fire. 

Adam  felt  so  sorry  for  Mr.  O'Meagher  that  he  joined  him 
at  the  window,  and  Mr.  O'Meagher,  realizing  his  propin- 
quity, said,  "You'd  like  to  go  to  a  good  Irish  school,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"No,"  said  Adam,  "I  would  not,"  and  drifted  away  from 
him  into  darkness  again. 

But  Mr.  O'Meagher  stumbled  after  him,  and  leaned  over 
him  to  say,  "And  why  wouldn't  you?"  Seeing  that  Adam 
was  unready  with  his  answer,  he  pursued  his  advantage, 
putting  his  lips  down  near  Adam's  ear,  to  say  in  a  wheedling 
voice:  "Would  you  like  Josephine  to  think  of  you  growing 
up  a  dunce?" 

This  was  a  horrible  thought  to  Adam :  it  was  bad  enough 
to  grow  up  a  dunce,  but  to  imagine  Josephine  hearing  of  it 
and  thinking  him  a  dunce  was  unbearable;  had  it  not  been 
for  the  vision  of  Father  Tudor,  with  his  maniacal  face  and 
ubiquitous  ferrule,  he  would  have  offered  to  return  to  Bel- 
vedere then  and  there.  "I  don't  want  to  be  a  dunce,"  said  he. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  thrust  his  head  yet  lower.  "But  a  dunce 
you  will  be  if  you're  not  mighty  careful,  my  lad,"  he  said, 
almost  vindictively;  and  Adam  was  conscious  for  the  first 
time,  so  far  as  Mr.  O'Meagher  was  concerned,  of  an  aroma 
associated  in  his  mind  with  Mr.  O'Toole  and  others :  the 
aroma  of  whisky.  "A  dunce  you'll  be,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Adam  to  hear  Mr.  Macarthy's  voice  ad- 
dressing itself  sharply  to  Mr.  O'Meagher:  "Pull  yourself 
together,  and  don't  talk  nonsense." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  stiffened  and  moved  over  towards  the 


THE  MARCHESA  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT         67 

fire-place.     "You  ought  not  to  talk  like  that  to  me  before 
the  lad,"  said  he. 

Mr.  Macarthy  slightly  waved  his  hand,  quite  without  im- 
patience, and  he  almost  sang  the  reply:  "What  I  ought  or 
ought  not  to  do  is  a  question  I  decide  for  myself." 

"And  what  I — "  Mr.  O'Meagher  began  when  he  was 
again  cut  short. 

"What  you  do  so  far  as  Adam  is  concerned,  I  decide  for 
you,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  with  perfect  urbanity. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  turned,  with  an  air  of  passionate  appeal, 
to  Herr  Behre,  but  the  latter  answered  only :  "Yes,  yes, 
that  will  be  best,  that  will  be  best ;  there  will  be  no  mistake 
then." 

"Well,  I'm  jiggered,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher;  "I  really  am." 

"That  is  interesting,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  looked  at  him  surprisedly.  "I'm  glad  you 
find  something  interesting  about  me,"  he  said ;  "and  what  is 
it,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"Only,"  Mr.  Macarthy  declared,  "that,  although  you  tell 
me  Gaelic  comes  more  naturally  to  you  than  English,  yet  in 
moments  of  surprise  you  never  express  yourself  in  that 
language." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  passed  his  hand  mistily  across  his  brow. 
"Moments  of  surprise  .  .  .  never  expressed  myself  in  that 
language  .  .  .  how  d'ye  mean?"  he  murmured. 

"I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  quite  reasonably,  "Why 
don't  you  say  'I'm  jiggered'  in  Gaelic,  or  doesn't  the  word 
exist  in  that  language  ?" 

Mr.  O'Meagher  pulled  himself  together  to  say  stoutly: 
"Every  word  exists  in  our  beautiful  language." 

"What,  then,  is  the  Gaelic  for  'jiggered?'"  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy insisted. 

Adam  thought,  by  the  bright  light  in  Mr.  O'Meagher's 
eyes,  that  he  knew  the  word  and  could  produce  it ;  but  after 


68  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

one  or  two  stumbling  efforts  the  light  suddenly  went  out 
again,  and,  muttering  "Jiggered  if  I  know,"  he  took  his  hat 
to  go.  Adam  heard  him  and  his  host  speak  in  cordial  under- 
tones on  the  staircase,  and  bid  each  other  no  less  cordial 
farewell. 


CHAPTER  X 
GOING  TO  SCHOOL 

WHILE  Mr.  Macarthy  was  ushering  Mr.  O'Meagher  out, 
Adam  seized  the  opportunity  to  ask  Herr  Behre  if  he  had 
noticed  that  Mr.  O'Meagher  smelt  of  whisky,  to  which  the 
musician  answered,  curtly  for  him,  "Why  should  not  the 
gentleman  smell  of  anything  he  pleases?" 

Adam  answered  fierily :  "I  never  said  he  shouldn't ;  I  said 
he  did." 

"Well,"  said  Herr  Behre,  "and  what  of  it?" 

Unable  to  deny  that  there  was  nothing  of  it,  Adam  held 
his  peace :  he  felt  that  even  his  long  suffering  neighbor  at 
St.  George's  Place  was  weary  of  his  questions  to-day.  And 
yet  he  meant  them  all  in  good  faith:  he  was  not,  as  it  ap- 
peared to  himself,  a  mere  Paul  Pry.  He  did  wish  to  under- 
stand the  world  he  lived  in,  and  how  could  he  come  to  under- 
stand it  without  questioning  his  friends  as  to  its  working 
...  he  tried  again:  "Do  you  think,  Mr.  Behre,"  said  he, 
"that  Mr.  O'Meagher  ought  to  smell  of  whisky  ?" 

It  was  interesting  to  note  that  Herr  Behre  now  did  what 
he  often  saw  Mr.  Macarthy  do :  he  turned  his  back  on  him, 
and  his  shoulders  rose  and  fell.  For  the  rest,  all  he  said 
was  "Donnerwetter !"  and  at  this  point  Mr.  Macarthy  re- 
joined them.  Apparently  he  took  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance,  only,  as  Adam  thought,  in  an  inverted  view  of  it; 
for  he  said  to  Adam:  "So  Mr.  Behre  has  been  cross-exam- 
ining you." 

Herr  Behre  swung  round  on  his  heel:  "I  ...  cross-ex- 
amine him!" 

"No,  no,"  cried  Adam,  "it  was  me — I  mean  it  was  I." 

69 


70  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"You  surprise  me,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "Perhaps  you 
would  like  to  ask  me  a  few  questions  now?" 

Adam  smiled  gleefully.  "I  can  always  ask  you  ques- 
tions," he  said. 

Both  men  laughed,  and  Herr  Behre  came  over  to  him: 
"And  me,  too,  Adam,"  said  he;  "you  can  always  ask  me 
questions,  if  you  may  not  expect  such  ready  answers  to 
them  as  Mr.  Macarthy  makes." 

Mr.  Macarthy  was  suddenly  stern.  "One  thing,  Adam," 
said  he,  "there  is  no  harm  in  asking  questions,  but  there  is 
a  time  for  questioning  and  a  time  for  not  questioning.  I 
leave  it  to  you  to  think  out  for  yourself  when  each  of  these 
alternatives  arises." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Adam  humbly,  and  that  particular 
conversation  ended  there. 

The  following  morning,  however,  when  they  were  alone, 
Mr.  Macarthy  reverted  to  the  question  of  Adam's  educa- 
tion. "In  the  spring,"  said  he,  "when  I  took  you  away  from 
Belvedere  after  that  unfortunate  trouble  with  Father  Tudor, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  better  for  your  nerves,  in  fact, 
for  your  health  generally,  that  you  should  have  no  more 
schooling  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  for  some  time 
to  come.  I  may  have  been  right  or  I  may  have  been  wrong 
in  this,  but,  anyhow,  you  seem  to  have  benefited  by  it,  and 
Miss  Gannon,  who  has  known  you  longer  than  anyone  else 
...  at  any  rate,  of  the  people  with  whom  I  come  in  contact, 
tells  me  she  has  never  known  you  look  so  well.  You  your- 
self feel  well,  do  you  not?" 

Adam's  face  glowed  with  gratitude  as  he  panted :  "Sure, 
I  never  thought  anyone  could  feel  as  well  as  I  do." 

Mr.  Macarthy's  lips  reflected  his  smile.     "Come,  that's 
good  news,"  said  he.     "Father  Innocent  will  thank  me  at 
least  for  that  .  .  .  but  there  are  other  things  which,  per- 
haps, he  will  think  of  greater  importance  .  .  ." 
"My  soul,"  Adam  gravely  suggested. 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL  71 

"Your  soul,"  echoed  Mr.  Macarthy,  "certainly  your  soul ; 
but  that  is  at  the  present  in  charge  of  Father  Ignatius  Steele, 
and  I  feel  no  immediate  responsibility  for  it.  What  I  am 
bothering  about  now  is  what  we  may  call  your  mind." 

"Is  the  mind  different  from  the  soul  ?"  Adam  asked. 

"I  imagine  not,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "though  I  would 
rather  you  asked  Father  Ignatius.  Perhaps  I  should  have 
said  I  am  concerned  with  that  part  of  your  mind,  or  your 
soul,  upon  the  development  of  which  will  depend  your  im- 
mediate future  in  the  world  of  Dublin,  or  wherever  you 
may  elect  to  live." 

The  last  clause  brought  into  Adam's  mind  a  beating  of 
waves  on  desert  islands — visions  of  the  Bristol  boat,  half 
forgotten  dream  voyages  at  Belvedere,  and  that  very  baffling 
thing  the  chart  of  the  world  on  Mercator's  projection.  "Of 
course,"  said  he,  "I  might  go  foreign,  mightn't  I?" 

"You  might,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  gravely,  "or,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  you  might  stop  at  home." 

"Or,"  cried  Adam  with  a  high-pitched  voice,  "I  might 
do  both." 

"You  might,"  his  guardian  again  assented,  "but  not  at 
once." 

It  was  a  little  disappointing  to  Adam  this  thought  that  he 
might  not  do  all  things  at  once.  Even  in  the  wretchedest 
hours  of  his  life  in  the  foul  alley  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Pro-Cathedral,  he  had  been  buoyed  up  by  a  vague  notion 
that  all  things  could  be  done  at  once  if  you  only  knew  how 
...  in  his  dreams,  he  was  positive  that  he  had  done  all  the 
things  he  ever  heard  of  in  one  breath  .  .  .  but  if  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy said  all  things  could  not  be  done  at  once,  they  could 
not,  and  there  was  an  end  to  it  ...  there,  at  least,  there 
ought  to  have  been  an  end  to  it,  but  he  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  ask  his  guardian  why  everything  could  never 
be  done  at  once. 

"The  answer  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "so  far  as  there 


72  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

is  an  answer  to  that,  is  because  of  the  limitations  of  place 
and  time." 

Adam  was  still  of  an  age  to  be  content  with  answers 
which  explained  nothing,  and  he  repeated  pensively,  "I  see, 
the  limitations  of  place  and  time."  He  told  Attracta  that 
evening  that  it  was  useless  to  try  to  bring  Mr.  Gannon's 
dinner  and  his  own  at  the  same  hour  because  of  the  limita- 
tions of  place  and  time,  and  Attracta  was  so  impressed  that 
she  very  nearly  failed  to  do  so,  and,  consequently,  incurred 
a  scolding  from  her  mistress.  Adam  heard  her  trying  to 
explain  her  intellectual  position  to  the  head  of  the  house, 
who  the  next  morning  exhorted  him  not  to  be  putting  non- 
sense into  the  girl's  head. 

"It  is  not  nonsense,"  Adam  said  stoutly.  "Mr.  Macarthy 
told  me  so." 

"Then  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,"  said  Miss 
Gannon. 

"Why  ought  he  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  ?"  Adam  asked, 
but  Miss  Gannon  fled  to  escape  his  fire. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Macarthy  pursued  the  question  of  Adam's 
future.  "We  are  now  in  September,"  said  he,  "and  you 
have  had  fully  six  months'  holiday.  Don't  you  think  it  is 
time  that  you  should  be  doing  some  sort  of  regular  work 
again  ?" 

Adam  expressed  the  more  or  less  pious  and  not  deeply 
felt  conviction  that  he  ought.  "Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy, "how  about  going  back  to  Belvedere?" 

Adam's  heart  fell.  "Are  you  telling  me  to  do  that?"  he 
quavered. 

"I  am  telling  you  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "except 
that  I  am  bound  to  advise  you  that  it  may  be  to  your 
material  interests  to  do  so." 

"How  d'ye  mean?"  Adam  asked,  almost  too  depressed  to 
feel  properly  curious. 

Mr.  Macarthy  glanced  at  a  paper  on  his  desk  and  said: 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL  73 

"I  mean  this.  When  I  took  you  away  from  Belvedere 
Father  Muldoon,  as  I  thought  you  were  aware,  entered  a 
strong  protest  against  my  doing  so." 

Adam  clenched  his  fingers  testily.  "What  right  had  he 
to  protest  ?" 

"He  had  this  right,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "Some  person 
who  wishes  to  remain  anonymous  had  sent  him  money  to 
be  devoted  to  your  education  and  your  welfare  generally. 
The  terms  of  this  trust  are  not  very  clear  to  me,  and  in  the 
absence  of  anyone  who  has  seen  the  letters  on  the  subject — 
I  myself  have  not,  nor,  perhaps,  has  anyone  except  Father 
Innocent,  who  left  no  note  of  them  beyond  his  general  im- 
pression as  to  their  contents — it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
question  Father  Muldoon's  interpretation  of  it.  He  holds 
that  he  cannot,  and  it  is  quite  obvious  that  he  will  not, 
allow  the  money  to  be  used  unless  he  remains  in  complete 
charge  of  it,  which  is  to  say  that  he  remains  in  complete 
charge  of  you  so  far  as  your  education  is  concerned.  He 
and  I  are  on  sufficiently  friendly  terms  that  he  accepted  my 
advice  about  removing  you  from  Belvedere  until  you  had 
recovered  from  the  effect  of  Father  Tudor's" — here  he 
hesitated  for  a  word — "Father  Tudor's  mistaken  view  of 
you." 

"There  was  no  mistake,"  Adam  blurted;  "he  did  it  on 
purpose." 

Mr.  Macarthy  went  on  smoothly.  "Let  us  call  it  then 
Father  Tudor's  mistaken  purpose  .  .  .  anyhow,  the  long 
and  the  short  of  it  is,  if  you  are  to  benefit  from  this  money, 
Father  Muldoon  holds  in  trust  for  you,  he  requires  that 
you  should  return  to  Belvedere." 

Adam  sank  into  a  chair  and  suddenly  buried  his  face 
in  his  arms.  It  seemed  to  him  the  world  was  crumbling 
around  him.  "I'd  rather  die,"  he  groaned.  "I'd  rather 
die." 

Mr.  Macarthy's  tone  remained  cold.     "You  are  young  to 


74  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

want  to  die,"  said  he.  "But,  of  course,  even  at  thirteen  it 
is  impossible  to  imagine  circumstances  in  which  one  would 
be  better  dead." 

"I'd  be  much  better  dead,"  Adam  answered  in  a  sing- 
song of  self-pity,  "than  back  at  Belvedere  with  Tudor  tor- 
menting the  life  out  of  me." 

Mr.  Macarthy  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "I  agree 
with  you  there,"  said  he.  "But  some  of  us  are  not  entirely 
without  influence,  and  I  think  it  might  be  possible  for  you 
to  go  back  to  Belvedere  without  having  much  to  fear  from 
Father  Tudor.  At  all  events  I  could  promise  you  that  at 
the  first  sign  of  his  attempting  to  lay  hand  on  you  you  could 
march  out  of  class  then  and  there  without  anyone  daring  to 
stop  you." 

For  an  instant  Adam  had  a  darkling  vision  of  his  defying 
Father  Tudor  with  his  fingers  to  his  nose,  but  his  stomach 
sickened  even  at  this  view  of  the  good  priest,  and  he  shook 
his  head.  "I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  Belvedere,"  said  he. 
"I  loved  it  once,  but  Tudor's  made  me  hate  it  for  ever  and 
ever." 

"But  supposing  your  whole  future  may  depend  on  your 
pleasing  Father  Muldoon  in  this,"  Mr.  Macarthy  urged. 
"Suppose  on  the  one  hand  it's  a  question  of  your  meeting 
his  views  and  being  brought  up  in  ...  in  what  he  and  your 
godfather  Mr.  O'Toole  would  call  a  gentlemanly  way  and 
your  being  thrown  on  the  streets  to  earn  your  own  liveli- 
hood again,  which  would  you  deliberately  prefer?" 

Adam  sprang  up  and  faced  his  guardian  with  a  crash  of 
his  little  fist  upon  the  table.  "The  streets  any  day,"  he 
cried.  Mr.  Macarthy  held  out  his  hand.  "That's  right," 
he  said,  "and  so  would  I.  The  streets  any  day,  by  God." 
He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room,  then  suddenly 
caught  Adam  and  swung  him  up  in  his  arms  and  laughed 
at  him.  "Good  man,"  said  he,  "the  streets  any  day."  Then 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL  75 

he  sat  down  with  Adam  in  his  lap.  "It  won't  be  the  streets 
while  I  live,"  said  he.  Adam  began  to  feel  quite  fond  of 
Mr.  Macarthy. 

He  tried  to  think  of  something  nice  to  say  to  him.  "It 
was  very  kind  of  you  to  give  me  that  bicycle,"  he  said. 

"Was  it?"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "and  to  let  you  strain  your 
little  entrails  out  trying  to  ride  it;  I  suppose  that  was  very 
kind  of  me,  too?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  second  bicycle  more  than  the  first," 
said  Adam  frankly,  and  was  a  little  surprised  that  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy roared  with  laughter,  but  seeing  that  he  did  so,  thought 
it  polite  to  imitate  him,  and  so  they  both  laughed  until  the 
tears  ran  down  their  cheeks;  but  in  his  heart  Adam  saw 
nothing  at  all  amusing  in  straining  his  inside  from  falling 
off  a  bicycle.  His  laughter  was  really  a  rejoicing  at  the 
thought  that  for  sure  now  he  need  never  go  back  to  Bel- 
vedere. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  at  last,  "what  really  you 
would  like  to  do." 

Adam's  eyes  swept  the  walls  for  inspiration.  "What 
were  you  doing  at  my  age?"  he  asked. 

"At  your  age,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "I  was  at  Clongowes 
.  .  .  you  know  Clongowes?" 

Adam  nodded.  "Clongowes  Wood,  the  boarding-school 
in  Kildare."  His  face  fell.  "Father  Tudor  came  from 
there." 

"Well,  anyhow  he's  not  there  now,"  Mr.  Macarthy  pointed 
out,  "so  would  you  like  to  try  how  that  would  agree  with 
you?" 

Adam  had  a  happy  inspiration.  "Old  Muldoon  would 
think  that  as  good  as  going  to  Belvedere  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  daresay  he  might,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  "if  we  put  it 
to  him  in  the  right  spirit." 

Adam   somewhat   wistfully   sought  still   a   loop-hole  of 


76  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

escape  from  doing  what  he  thought  Mr.  Macarthy  wished 
him  to  do.  "D'ye  think  Mr.  O'Meagher  would  approve?" 
he  asked. 

Mr.  Macarthy's  eyes  had  what  seemed  to  Adam  a  mis- 
chievous, look.  "Why  should  he  not  approve?"  he  said. 
"At  all  events  you  heard  him  the  other  day  very  strongly 
disapprove  of  your  doing  nothing.  .  .  .  Mind  you,  I  don't 
say  that  you're  doing  nothing,  but  that  is  how  your  present 
existence  appears  to  Mr.  O'Meagher,  who  is,  after  all,  in 
his  own  opinion  at  all  events,  as  good  a  judge  of  boys  as 
I  am." 

Adam  shifted  from  one  leg  to  the  other.  "I  don't  want 
to  go  to  Clongowes  unless  you  want  me  to,"  he  said,  and 
seeing  that  his  guardian  was  slow  to  answer  pushed  what 
he  thought  to  be  his  advantage.  "You  don't  want  me  to  go 
there,  do  you?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  looked  him  straight  in  the  face.  "Adam," 
said  he,  "I've  always  tried  to  be  frank  with  you;  I  really 
don't  know  whether  I  want  you  to  go  or  not.  If  I  were  to 
consider  myself  alone  and  had  complete  faith  in  my  own 
ideas — to — say  nothing  of  my  being  sufficiently  well  off 
to  be  able  to  carry  them  to  their  logical  conclusion — I  am 
under  the  impression  that  I  would  risk  keeping  you  with 
me,  but  I  feel  myself  bound  in  honor  to  try  to  meet  Father 
Muldoon's  views  in  every  way  I  can.  Also  as  I  tell  you, 
it  is  very  much  in  your  own  interest  that  you  should  do  the 
same.  Now  if  I  were  in  your  position  I  would  try  Clon- 
gowes .  .  ." 

"I  don't  mind  trying  it,"  Adam  blurted. 

"Very  good,  then,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "try  it.  That  is 
all  I  ask;  it  is  quite  possible  that  you  may  be  happy  there, 
and  if  you  are  everyone  will  be  pleased :  no  one,  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor,  can  be  more  pleased  than  I  ...  Try 
it  for  one  term  anyhow,  the  new  one  is  beginning  now  and 
three  months  brings  you  to  Christmas,  that  term  you  must 


GOING  TO  SCHOOL  77 

stick  if  you  go  there  at  all,  but  if  when  I  see  you  at  Christ- 
mas you  can  give  me  any  good  and  honest  reason  for  not 
going  back,  then  I  promise  you  that  whether  Father  Mul- 
doon,  or  for  the  matter  of  that  anyone  else,  finds  it  a  suffi- 
cient reason  or  otherwise,  back  you  shall  not  go."  He  took 
a  turn  up  and  down  the  room,  and  then  paused  again  before 
the  boy.  "Come,  how's  that  for  a  bargain  between  us?" 

Adam  seized  the  proffered  hand.  "I'll  do  anything  on 
earth  you  like,"  said  he,  and  added  almost  in  a  whisper, 
"I've  no  right  to  bargain  with  the  like  of  you." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  to  Clongowes  Adam  should  go. 
Father  Ignatius  Steele  blessed  the  arrangement  and  even 
Father  Muldoon  himself  appeared  to  commend  it.  Mr. 
O'Meagher  was  particularly  gracious  and  took  to  himself 
no  little  credit  for  the  advice  upon  which  he  believed  Mr. 
Macarthy  to  be  acting.  For  the  rest  he  reminded  Adam 
more  than  once  that  at  Clongowes  he  would  have  every  op- 
portunity of  learning  Gaelic.  "Sure  there  are  men  there 
speak  it  like  natives,"  he  declared. 

Adam  looked  at  him  surprisedly.  "Do  natives  speak 
Gaelic?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  tied  himself  up  in  an  effort  to  answer 
this  question:  so  Mr.  Macarthy  came  to  the  rescue:  "The 
natives  of  Ireland  commonly  speak  English,"  he  said. 

"More  shame  to  them!"  roared  Mr.  O'Meagher,  but  did 
not  show  cause. 

On  the  whole  going  to  Clongowes  was  capital  fun;  for 
what  seemed  to  Adam  a  most  elaborate  trousseau  had  to 
be  purchased,  and  he  had  the  town-bred  boy's  instinctive 
joy  in  shopping.  A  less  agreeable  item  was  going  to  say 
farewell  to  his  mother  at  7  Pleasant  Street.  She  received 
him  in  state  in  a  room  all  red  paper  and  queer  gimcracks. 
The  interview  was  very  short ;  for  Mr.  O'Toole  was  there, 
too,  seeing  her  on  business.  When  Mr.  O'Toole  came,  so 
far  as  Adam  remembered,  he  always  came  on  business ;  but 


78  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

what  the  business  was  never  appeared.  Mrs.  Macfadden 
gave  him  five  shillings  for  himself  and  a  kiss  strongly 
flavored  with  Guinness's  stout.  "Never  forget  to  say  your 
prayers,"  she  admonished  him,  "particularly  to  the  saints. 
St.  Kevin  of  Glendalough  was  a  lovely  saint.  I'd  pray  to 
him  if  I  were  you  every  morning,  noon  and  night,  the  more 
the  merrier." 

His  godfather  gave  him  half  a  sovereign.  "Always  let 
on  to  be  a  gentleman,"  said  he,  "and  if  anyone  says  you're 
not  kick  the  tripes  out  of  him." 


CHAPTER  XI 
CLONGOWES  WOOD  COLLEGE 

To  say  good-by  to  his  mother  and  his  peerless  god-father 
was  one  thing,  but  to  say  farewell  to  Herr  Behre  and  to 
Mr.  Macarthy  and  to  Attracta  and  perhaps  above  all  to  the 
bull's-eye  lantern  through  whose  intermediary  he  had  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  poets  and  notably  Mr.  Keats,  was 
another.  He  had  thought  of  taking  the  bull's-eye  lantern 
with  him,  but  all  his  guardians  agreed  in  saying  that  to  do 
so  would  be  to  risk  its  confiscation  by  the  Society  of  Jesus. 
Herr  Behre  had  at  first  argued  that  it  was  reasonable  for  a 
boy  to  have  a  bull's-eye  lantern  and  a  gross  interference 
with  the  rights  of  the  subject  to  forbid  a  schoolboy  to  carry 
one  about  with  him.  But  Mr.  Macarthy  said  that  the  pro- 
tection of  the  rights  of  the  subject  had  never  been  a  plank 
in  the  Jesuit  platform,  and  indeed  since  their  suspected 
association  with  the  frustrated  exploit  of  Mr.  Guido  Fawkes 
the  Jesuits  had  been  tetchy  on  the  subject  of  such  methods 
of  illumination.  Adam  did  not  fully  perceive  the  drift  of 
this  argument,  but  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  leave 
the  lantern  behind.  He  tenderly  folded  it  in  many  copies 
of  the  Irish  Homestead,  full  of  pathetic  recollections  of  a 
certain  goose,  and  brown  paper  and  string  withal,  and 
having  sealed  the  whole  with  a  stick  of  sealing-wax  costing 
rather  more  than  the  lantern,  he  committed  the  parcel  to 
the  care  of  Attracta  with  assurance  that  she  would  end  her 
days  in  misery  and  probably  spend  eternity  in  the  least 
agreeable  surroundings  if  she  lost  it  or  attempted  to  ascer- 
tain its  contents. 

Where  he  expected  Attracta  to  conceal  it  from  the  morally 

79 


80  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

sleepless  eyes  of  Miss  Gannon,  he  had  not  the  time  to 
think,  nor  did  Attracta  think  about  it  in  her  romantic  desire 
to  have  a  secret  with  the  young  Master,  as  she  now  called 
him,  that  none  but  the  two  of  them  should  share.  It  is 
probable  that  while  Adam  was  at  school  that  parcel  per- 
formed a  steeple-chase  through  the  house  with  such  rapidity 
that  even  Miss  Gannon's  gaze  failed  to  keep  pace  with  it. 
It  were  as  indelicate  to  pursue  Attracta's  strategems  in  de- 
fense of  the  young  Master's  property  as  those  of  Miss 
Flora  Macdonald  in  the  preservation  of  the  person  of  the 
Young  Pretender:  waking  or  sleeping  it  was  seldom  far 
from  her. 

But  meanwhile  Adam  started  on  his  journey  into  the  un- 
known. Mr.  Macarthy  himself  drove  him  on  a  car  to 
Kingsbridge  station,  and  about  five  o'clock  of  a  chilly 
autumn  afternoon  handed  him  over  to  the  care  of  a  tall  and 
amiable  young  Jesuit  with  longish  hair  whom  Adam  had 
never  seen  before ;  his  name  was  Mr.  Beam,  and  he  was  in 
charge  of  a  party  of  boys  mostly  of  Adam's  age  or  a  little 
older,  who  swarmed  in  and  out  of  certain  second-class  car- 
riages reserved  for  their  accommodation.  Adam  quite 
frankly  clung  to  Mr.  Macarthy  when  the  moment  came  for 
them  to  part,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  vaguely  luxurious 
notion  that  Mr.  Macarthy  clung  to  him.  He  thought  there 
was  a  new  kindness  in  his  guardian's  voice  as  he  whispered 
in  his  ear,  "There,  there,  old  fellow,  don't  cry;  that  will 
be  bad  for  both  of  us  and  a  bad  beginning  for  your  school 
days  .  .  .  you  can  see  Beam's  a  decent  fellow  and  he'll 
look  after  you  .  .  .  he's  Third  Line  Prefect,  so  you'll  be 
under  him  .  .  .  good-by,"  then  there  was  just  a  blur,  a 
slamming  of  doors,  a  whistling,  and  the  train  was  off. 

The  last  journey  Adam  had  taken  by  train  was  from 
Sandycove  to  Westland  Row,  after  his  inglorious  collapse 
from  his  bicycle  near  Glasthule  Church.  He  reflected  that 


CLONGOWES  WOOD  COLLEGE  81 

the  only  railway  he  had  ever  traveled  on  was  the  South 
Eastern,  commonly  called  the  Dublin,  Wicklow,  and  Wex- 
ford.  And  by  that  he  had  never  gone  farther  than  Bray, 
only  thirteen  miles  or  so.  Now  he  was  going  to  Sallins, 
which  was  five  miles  more:  he  felt  that  as  a  traveler  he 
was  getting  on.  He  perceived  at  once  that  the  train  he  was 
in  now  ran  much  more  softly  than  any  he  had  been  in 
before ;  it  almost  seemed  to  glide  along,  and  even  going 
over  points  you  only  just  felt  it.  The  Southern  and  West- 
ern was  the  great  line  surely,  but  he  was  not  sure  that  he 
did  not  miss  a  little  that  galloping  feeling  you  had  on  the 
Wicklow  and  Wexford ;  you  always  had  it :  no  matter  how 
slow  you  went,  the  train  always  bumped  as  if  it  were  going 
quite  fast  .  .  .  that  was  a  jolly  sort  of  feeling,  to  bump. 
Of  course,  you  could  bump  a  bit  too  much,  like  on  a  car 
in  Brunswick  Street  .  .  . 

Such  were  his  thoughts  when  he  was  conscious  of  the 
green  eyes  of  a  lively-looking,  though  rather  pale  and  sickly, 
boy  in  a  Norfolk  jacket  and  long  trousers,  and  a  very  deep 
Eton  collar  round  his  neck,  staring  at  him  with  a  sort  of 
contempt.  This  boy  said :  "A  penny  for  your  thoughts." 

"I  don't  want  a  penny,"  Adam  answered,  "for  I  have  a 
lot  of  money  in  my  pocket  .  .  ." 

"How  much?"  asked  the  other  boy  promptly. 

Adam  began  to  reckon.  "My  mother  gave  me  five  bob, 
and  Mr.  O'Toole  gave  me  ten,  and  .  .  ." 

"Who's  Mr.  O'Toole  ?"  asked  the  other  boy. 

"Mr.  O'Toole  is  my  godfather,"  said  Adam  submissively. 

"How  does  he  come  to  be  your  godfather?"  the  other  boy 
asked. 

"I  suppose  he  was  asked  to  be,"  said  Adam  thoughtfully. 

"Who  asked  him?"  insisted  the  other. 

Adam  again  took  thought.  "I  dare  say  it  might  have 
been  my  mother." 


82  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"Why  didn't  your  father  ask  him  ?" 

Adam  felt  himself  thrown  on  his  defense.  "How  do  you 
know  he  didn't  ask  him?"  he  returned. 

But  the  other  maintained  his  attitude.  "How  do  you 
know  he  did?" 

"I  never  said  he  did,"  said  Adam ;  "I  only  said  it  wasn't 
for  anyone  to  say  he  didn't." 

"'Don't  be  cheeky,"  said  the  other  boy. 

"I'm  not  cheeky,"  said  Adam. 

"You  are." 

"I'm  not." 

"I  say  you  are." 

For  a  moment  Adam  was  inclined  to  deal  severely  with 
his  interlocutor,  but  he  swallowed  the  desire  and  held  his 
peace.  The  other  boy  looked  round  the  compartment  to 
make  sure  they  were  not  observed,  and  then  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "I  say  you  are  cheeky,"  and  then,  as  Adam  still  held 
his  peace,  he  repeated,  "I'll  teach  you  to  be  cheeky." 

Adam  felt  that  the  enemy  had  left  a  pretty  hole  in  his 
armor.  "I  dare  say  you  could  teach  me  a  lot  I  don't  want 
to  learn,"  he  said,  with  a  tolerable  imitation  of  the  manner 
of  Mr.  Macarthy.  The  next  instant  he  was  conscious  of  a 
vicious  kick  on  his  ankle. 

"I'll  teach  you  .  .  ."  began  his  new  acquaintance,  but 
his  speech  ended  in  a  shriek;  for  Adam  had  no  sooner  felt 
the  toe  of  his  tormentor's  left  foot  touch  his  right  ankle 
than  he  ground  down  his  own  left  heel  on  the  other's  right 
toe,  and  seemed  to  that  gentleman  to  clamp  it  to  the  floor 
of  the  carriage. 

"Go  on  teaching  me,"  said  Adam  kindly. 

"Pax,"  said  the  other ;  "oh,  pax !" 

Adam's  smile  had  the  grimness  of  youth  in  pain,  and  his 
gentle  tone  was  grimmer  still.  "You  began  it,"  said  he; 
"it's  for  me  to  say  when  it'll  end." 


CLONGOWES  WOOD  COLLEGE  83 

"I  didn't  begin  anything,"  said  the  other.  "Let  me  go, 
I  tell  you,  you  young  brute." 

"Go  on  teaching  me,"  said  Adam  again. 

The  other  was  now  sobbing.  "If  you  don't  let  me  go 
I'll  tell  Mr.  Beam,"  said  he. 

"What'll  you  tell  him?"  asked  Adam  derisively.  "That 
I  trod  on  your  toe,  eh?" 

"I'll  tell  him,  I'll  tell  him,"  babbled  the  other. 

Adam  cut  him  short:  "If  you  tell  him  anything  more 
than  that  you'll  tell  him  a  lie,"  said  he;  "but  you  may  tell 
him  what  you  like  for  all  I  care — only  keep  your  dirty  feet 
to  yourself  in  the  future";  and  with  that  he  released  him. 

For  the  rest  of  the  journey  the  youth  in  the  Eton  collar 
swore  strange  oaths  of  grief  and  pain,  and  threatened 
vengeance  into  the  depth  of  his  Norfolk  jacket;  but  Adam 
took  no  further  notice  of  him,  devoting  himself  entirely  to 
the  attempt  to  discover,  by  some  anticipated  change  in  the 
landscape  and  fauna,  where  the  county  of  Dublin  ended  and 
that  of  Kildare  commenced.  Then,  suddenly,  they  were  at 
their  journey's  end,  without  his  solving  this  problem. 

Adam  clambered  out  with  his  impedimenta,  which,  chosen 
for  him  by  Mr.  Macarthy,  were  of  a  nature  for  a  boy  to 
handle ;  then  he  saw  the  other  boy  struggling  with  a  sort 
of  chest  which  had  been  hidden  under  the  seat,  and  offered 
him  a  hand  with  it. 

"I  don't  want  your  help,"  he  grumbled,  but,  nevertheless, 
availed  himself  of  it.  Then,  again,  followed  a  blur,  and 
the  next  thing  Adam  knew  was  that  he  was  trying  to  climb 
up  on  a  car  and  that  his  right  leg  refused  to  help  him.  His 
ankle  had  already  caused  him  to  shamble  from  the  carriage 
to  the  road  outside  the  station,  but  there  were  cheery  hands 
ready  to  help  him,  and  someone  swung  him  up  and,  seeing 
him  in  pain,  gave  him  the  more  comfortable  seat  to  ride  on. 
His  train  companion  had  disappeared,  and  his  immediate 


84  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

neighbor  now  was  a  more  attractive  looking  boy,  with  fair 
hair  and  a  rather  girlish  face,  a  couple  of  years  older  than 
himself. 

"If  you're  not  used  to  car  driving,"  said  this  boy,  with  a 
soft  accent,  strange  to  Adam's  ears  and  a  pleasant  undu- 
lating roll  which  gave  the  word  "car"  an  indefinite  number 
of  syllables — "if  you're  not  used  to  car  driving  you  had 
better  hold  on  tight,  for  an  outside  car  on  a  country  road 
is  queer  driving  with  the  night  falling,  and  you  never  know 
when  a  wheel  may  rock  over  a  ditch  if  the  driver  is  not  as 
teetotal  as  some." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  falling  off,"  said  Adam  stoutly,  "but 
I'll  hold  on  if  you  tell  me  to." 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  night  was  not  yet  falling, 
and  the  sun  was  barely  sunk  by  the  time  the  train  of  cars 
had  covered  the  few  miles  of  autumn-decked  roadway  be- 
tween Sallins  station  and  the  entrance  to  the  school  avenue. 
Adam  opened  his  lungs  to  the  country  smells,  of  which  the 
dominant  note  was  peat  smoke.  Greatly  he  enjoyed  the 
ride,  and  would  have  thought  it  too  short  but  that  the  desire, 
the  greatest  desire  of  youth,  the  satisfaction  of  curiosity, 
added  many  fanciful  furlongs  to  each  mile. 

Bowling  up  the  drive  he  glimpsed  a  castle,  such  a  castle 
as  you  see  in  a  pasteboard  theater,  and  believed  himself  in 
the  presence  of  immemorial  antiquity.  "I  suppose  now," 
he  said  to  his  neighbor,  "Clongowes  will  be  a  thousand  years 
old  at  least?" 

"Hardly  that,"  said  the  other,  without  show  of  erudition, 
"but  I  dare  say  it  might  be  a  hundred,  or  even  more."  He 
added,  thoughtfully:  "Daniel  O'Connell  sent  his  sons  to 
Clongowes." 

"But,  sure,  Daniel  O'Connell  himself  only  died  about 
the  time  Herr  Behre  was  born,"  Adam  cried,  disappointed 
that  the  school  should  be  such  a  comparative  novelty. 

"I  don't  know  when  Herr  Behre  was  born,"  the  other 


CLONGOWES  WOOD  COLLEGE  85 

simply  replied,  "but  I  know  Daniel  O'Connell  died  before 
I  was  born.  And  anything  that  happened  before  you  were 
born  always  seems  a  long  time  off,  doesn't  it?" 

Adam's  voice  piped  sympathetically :  "Doesn't  it  seem  an 
awful  long  time?  I  used  to  think  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened before  I  was  born." 

"So  used  I,"  said  the  other;  "but  that's  all  nonsense,  of 
course,  for  History  happened  and  all  that." 

Adam  advanced  philosophically  the  proposition:  "Some 
say  History  isn't  true." 

His  new  friend  looked  at  him  with  lovable  eyes.  "I  dare 
say  English  History  isn't  true,"  said  he,  "but  Irish  History 
is,  of  course." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Adam  doubtfully,  adding:  "I  never 
read  any  .  .  .  except  for  fun." 

"Shame  on  you,"  cried  the  other,  half  seriously.  "The 
idea  of  reading  the  History  of  Ireland  for  fun!  There's 
no  fun  about  the  History  of  Ireland,  I  can  tell  you." 

Adam  shook  his  head  knowingly.  "Mr.  Macarthy  says 
there's  fun  about  everything  if  you  look  at  it  in  the  right 
spirit." 

"What  Macarthy  is  that?"  the  friendly  boy  asked  him, 
and  then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  cried :  "Here  we 
are !" 

There  was  a  blur  again,  a  blur  of  smoking  horses  after 
the  sharp  drive,  gray  light  around  outside,  and  a  big  door 
open,  with  light  inside,  against  which  stood  black-frocked 
men  with  clean-shaven  faces  and  birettas  on  their  heads, 
reminding  him  of  the  shadows  of  crown  loaves,  and  people 
were  shaking  his  hands,  and  a  fatherly  voice  was  saying, 
"Welcome  to  Clongowes !" 


CHAPTER  XII 
ADAM  IS  BIDDEN  TO  KEEP  THE  FAITH 

FEW  boys  forget  their  first  night  at  a  boarding-school,  and 
Adam's  memory  was  of  a  kind  to  register  even  less  notable 
events.  More  than  to  most  of  them  was  it  strange  to  him 
to  be,  as  it  were,  afloat  in  a  sea  of  boys:  so  far  he  had 
lived  in  a  world  of  men ;  for  the  youngsters  with  whom  he 
had  rubbed  shoulders  when  he  sold  his  papers  outside  the 
Gresham  Hotel  and  in  Stephen's  Green  verily  did  not  be- 
long to  the  world  of  children,  the  world  of  nurseries  and 
Father  Christmas.  Perhaps  even  to-day  there  are  few 
children  permitted  to  know  childhood  in  families  of  a  rank 
far  below  the  middle  class.  At  all  events,  in  Adam's  time 
there  were  few  children  compared  with  the  number  of  em- 
bryo wage-earners,  or,  as  the  stocky  man  with  the  black 
mustache  whom  Adam  had  seen  Mr.  Macarthy  salute  on 
the  steps  of  Liberty  Hall  called  them,  wage-slaves. 

Perhaps  it  was  Father  Ignatius  Steele's  sentimental,  as 
some  thought,  appeal  for  the  right  of  children  to  be  chil- 
dren, that  first  endeared  him  to  Adam.  He  somehow  sus- 
pected that  Father  Muldoon  held  that  only  souls  of  some 
social  position  were  really  worth  the  trouble  of  saving,  at 
all  events  by  his  reverence.  And  Adam  had  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  Father  Muldoon  was  worldlier  than  other 
priests,  though  he  wore  a  markedly  shinier  tall  hat.  Mr. 
OToole  himself  had  praised  the  gloss  of  Father  Muldoon's 
tall  hat,  and  Mr.  O'Toole,  whatever  his  foibles,  was  a  stern 
critic  of  male  apparel :  Adam  remembered  the  days  when 
his  costume  was  ragged  to  the  verge  of  indelicacy,  but 

86 


ADAM  BIDDEN  TO  KEEP  THE  FAITH         87 

never  had  he  worn  a  coat  which  had  not  at  some  period, 
however  remote,  been  the  last  thing  in  fashion. 

Somehow  Adam's  thoughts  were  full  of  Mr.  O'Toole  as 
he  lay  down  to  rest  that  first  night  in  his  cubicle  at  Clon- 
gowes.  His  mind  recurred  to  the  conversation  with  the 
boy  who  had  attacked  him  in  the  train:  the  boy  who  had 
asked  him  who  was  Mr.  O'Toole  .  .  .  why  should  people 
ask  him  who  was  Mr.  O'Toole?  .  .  .  and  why  was  it  that 
he  did  not  really  properly  know  the  answer  to  this  ques- 
tion? .  .  .  Who  was  Mr.  O'Toole?  .  .  .  His  godfather? 
.  .  .  Why  was  he  his  godfather?  Because  his  mother 
wished  it.  And  why  did  his  mother  wish  it  ?  He  scratched 
his  head.  Some  day  he  must  ask  Mr.  Macarthy  why  his 
mother  wished  Mr.  O'Toole  to  be  his  godfather  .  .  .  and, 
now  he  came  to  think  of  it,  Mr.  O'Toole  was  supposed  to 
be  a  sort  of  guardian  to  him  too,  but  he  never  interfered 
with  what  Mr.  Macarthy  did.  .  .  .  Nobody  interfered  with 
what  Mr.  Macarthy  did.  .  .  .  Mr.  O'Meagher  seemed  want- 
ing to  interfere,  but  nothing  came  of  it  all.  .  .  .  But, 
then,  Mr.  O'Meagher  was  not  a  strong  man,  whereas  Mr. 
O'Toole,  he  felt  in  some  mysterious  and  sinister  way,  was 
a  very  strong  man  indeed.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  was  because 
he  had  the  Castle  behind  him.  .  .  .  Mr.  O'Meagher  had  the 
disadvantage  of  having  the  Castle  against  him.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Macarthy  had  the  Castle  .  .  .  was  it  for  or  against  him? 
Adam  could  not  make  out  which.  When  Mr.  Macarthy 
mentioned  the  Castle  he  did  so  as  carelessly  as  if  it  were  a 
public  lavatory :  something  that  you  might  use  or  you  might 
not,  but  hardly  the  sort  of  place  where  a  gentleman  would 
like  to  be  seen  employed  ...  it  must  be  a  very  queer  place, 
the  Castle ;  for  he  remembered  now  that  Mr.  O'Toole  always 
spoke  of  his  friends  employed  there  as  "gentlemen  from  the 
Castle"  ...  so  Mr.  Macarthy  and  Mr.  O'Toole  held  dif- 
ferent opinions  as  to  what  a  gentleman  was,  or,  at  all  events, 
what  a  gentleman  ought  to  do  ...  it  was  a  very  queer 


88  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

world.  How  could  you  be  a  gentleman  when  no  two  people 
agreed  as  to  what  a  gentleman  was?  He  remembered  tell- 
ing Father  Innocent  he  was  a  gentleman  and  Father  Inno- 
cent's annoyance  at  the  suggestion.  .  .  .  Now,  was  Father 
Innocent  annoyed  because  he  really  was  a  gentleman  or  be- 
cause he  really  was  not?  .  .  .  Anyhow,  Mr.  O'Toole's  in- 
structions were  if  anyone  said  he  was  not  a  gentleman  to 
perform  a  violent  operation  on  him  with  his  boots  .  .  .  but 
he  didn't  think  it  worth  making  a  fuss  about  whether  people 
questioned  his  gentility  or  not. 

The  bed  he  was  lying  in  was  very  hard,  not  that  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  lying  soft,  even  in  the  comparative 
luxury  of  St.  George's  Place,  but  the  flock  on  which  he  was 
lying  now  was,  as  it  were,  monastically  hard,  a  sort  of  pre- 
monition of  the  hard  bed  the  Christian  was  bound  to  make 
for  himself  wished  he  ever  to  take  his  ease  on  the  heavenly 
throne.  .  .  .  Adam  turned  from  side  to  side,  thinking  the 
heavenly  throne  uncommonly  far  away,  and  wondering 
whether  it  was  really  worth  while  taking  a  lot  of  trouble 
to  be  an  angel.  Somehow  angels  had  lost  any  definition  of 
outline  since  Father  Innocent  died;  up  to  then  he  had  seen 
them  as  beautiful  and  satisfying  to  the  eye,  and  no  less  ob- 
jective in  their  bodily  charm  than  the  three  heavenly  visitors 
who  had  caused  such  a  sensation  when  they  visited  the 
cities  of  the  plain  .  .  .  not  that  Adam  knew  much  about 
that  wonderful  visit  or  the  tribulation  that  it  had  cost  a 
worthy  and  far  from  proud  patriarch.  That  is  the  disad- 
vantage of  being  a  little  Catholic,  that  you  are  encouraged 
to  love  your  holy  faith  but  not  to  make  too  intimate  an 
acquaintance  ^  with  it.  Adam  had  never  conceived  of  any 
angel  as  being  of  the  male  sex,  with  the  possible  exception 
of  himself  ...  of  course,  there  was  Father  Innocent,  but 
somehow  even  Father  Innocent  did  not  readily  lend  him- 
self to  the  essential  scheme  of  decoration ;  he  could  not 
think  of  Father  Innocent  in  heaven  wearing  any  costume 


ADAM  BIDDEN  TO  KEEP  THE  FAITH         89 

more  fanciful  than  that  which  he  wore  at  the  altar,  and  had 
a  horrid  suspicion  that  if  the  sweet  little  saint  had  been 
given  wings  he  would  at  once  have  toppled  on  his  nose  .  .  . 
yet  a  Heaven  without  Father  Innocent,  transfigured  or 
plain,  would  have  been  emptier  to  Adam  than  a  heaven 
without  God. 

Adam  never  wanted  to  join  Father  Innocent  in  heaven, 
though  often  he  lay  awake  at  night  longing  with  a  heart- 
breaking passion  for  him  to  return  to  earth  ...  in  the 
daytime  he  often  forgot  him,  but  surely  as  he  woke  in  the 
night  his  first  thought  was  of  him,  and  that  he  was  dead, 
never  to  be  seen  again,  and  his  tears  would  wet  his  pillow; 
for  Adam  felt  that  Father  Innocent's  was  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  while  his  will  was  to  inherit  the  earth,  and  he  knew 
that  to  no  man  was  given  a  place  in  both  these  realms. 
Even  Mr.  Macarthy  strongly  insisted,  as  strongly  as  did 
Father  Steele  himself,  that  no  man  could  worship  God  and 
Mammon  too.  To  be  sure,  Adam  was  not  conscious  of 
worshiping  Mammon,  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  did 
not  worship  God.  He  never  at  any  time  had  worshiped 
God,  though  he  had  passionate  moments  when  he  thought 
of  God's  mother  and  God's  son  .  .  .  how  did  God's  mother 
become  the  mother  of  His  son?  That  sounded  like  a  ques- 
tion in  the  Catechism,  but  he  did  not  remember  any  answer 
to  it.  In  the  daytime  a  question  like  that  seemed  of  no 
importance,  but  at  night.  .  .  .  Why  did  questions  that 
seemed  so  trifling  in  the  daytime  loom  so  large  at  night? 
...  Of  course,  God  the  Father  and  God  the  Son  were  the 
same  person  .  .  .  but,  then,  if  they  were,  what  was  the  use 
.  .  .  and  the  Holy  Ghost?  Where,  exactly,  did  He  come 
in  ?  ...  Did  the  Blessed  Virgin  marry  them  all,  and  Joseph 
too?  .  .  .  Perhaps  there  was  someone  at  Clongowes  who 
could  tell  him  that.  The  first  man  who  shook  hands  with 
him  at  the  door  looked  very  clever — someone  said  he  was 
Father  Bernard  James ;  on  the  prospectus  of  the  school, 


90  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Father  Bernard  James  was  named  as  spiritual  director;  so 
he  ought  to  be  able  to  tell  him  all  about  the  Blessed  Virgin 
and  which  of  the  Blessed  Trinity  she  really  married.  .  .  . 
But  was  she  really  married?  The  Catechism  said  nothing 
about  her  marrying  anyone  but  Joseph :  it  was  all  very 
vague.  .  .  .  Now,  in  the  Roman  Mythology,  they  told  you 
definitely  what  happened,  as  when  Jupiter  turned  himself 
into  a  bull  or  a  swan  or  some  other  old  thing  when  he 
wanted  to  get  married.  .  .  .  But  then,  of  course,  the  ancient 
gods  got  married  as  often  as  they  liked,  the  modern  Chris- 
tian God  could  only  get  married  once.  For  him  to  have  had 
more  wives  than  one  would  never  have  done  at  all.  ...  It 
was  a  queer  thing  that  the  three  Divine  Persons  should  have 
had  only  one  woman  between  them,  and  that  she  should 
have  had  all  the  three  of  them,  and  Joseph  as  well.  .  .  , 
Lady  Bland  had  said  that  his  mother  was  like  the  Blessed 
Virgin  .  .  .  could  Lady  Bland  have  been  right  after  all? 
.  .  .  The  late  Mr.  Macfadden  had  not  been  at  all  like 
Joseph.  .  .  .  Nor  was  Mr.  O'Toole  at  all  like  .  .  .  Like 
who?  What  nonsense  was  he  thinking  now.  .  .  .  After 
all,  that  bed  was  not  so  hard  that  he  could  not  go  to  sleep 
on  it,  still  wondering  whether  Mr.  O'Toole  was  or  was  no; 
like  some  historical  person,  he  could  not  quite  remember 
whom;  but,  anyhow,  he  dreamt  of  Mr.  O'Toole  with  white 
wings  and  a  wand  in  his  hand,  and  was  presently  awakened 
by  the  ringing  of  the  Angelus. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  around,  wondering  for 
the  moment  where  he  was ;  the  dusky  light  of  a  September 
morning  was  breaking  in  the  dormitory,  notably  in  a  dis- 
traught chequer  on  the  ceiling:  that  patch  of  the  ceiling 
visible  above  the  white  curtain  that  screened  off  his  parti- 
tion from  the  gangway  .  .  .  the  bed  was  very  hard,  but  not 
so  hard  that  he  was  unprepared  to  go  again  to  sleep  upon  it. 
.  .  .  From  the  partitions  round  him  came  gentle  snorts  and 
murmurs,  the  ripplings  of  adolescent  slumber  on  the  shores 


ADAM  BIDDEN  TO  KEEP  THE  FAITH         91 

of  day:  but  not  only  he  was  awake;  for  from  one  partition 
came  a  rattle  of  crockery,  and  from  another  the  winding  of 
an  immeasurable  watch-spring,  in  another  someone,  possibly 
still  asleep,  was  saying  his  prayers ;  Adam  pricked  his  ears 
to  listen  to  it  ...  yes,  it  was  the  prayer  of  St.  Bernard 
...  he  once  had  fallen  asleep  saying  the  prayer  of  St. 
Bernard,  his  invisible  neighbor  promised  to  wake  up  saying 
it  ...  it  was  a  queer  thing  to  say  prayers  in  your  sleep 
.  .  .  did  prayers  said  in  your  sleep  count?  Or  were  they 
just  wasted  breath.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  if  prayers  said  in  your 
sleep  counted,  you  could  train  yourself  to  say  them  all  the 
time  you  were  asleep :  that  would  be  a  great  saving.  .  .  . 
He  was  not  quite  sure  what  it  would  save,  but  it  seemed 
clear  that  it  must  save  something.  .  .  .  But,  then,  prayers 
were  no  good  without  intention,  and  how  far  was  it  pos- 
sible to  have  intention  in  your  sleep?  .  .  .  On  the  whole,  it 
seemed  unlikely  that  prayers  said  in  your  sleep  received 
equally  high  marks  in  heaven  with  those  said  when  you 
were  awake.  .  .  .  He  was  dozing  off  when  an  electric  bell 
buzzed  fiercely,  and  a  moment  later  he  heard  a  door  open 
and  a  swish  of  priestly  garments  moving  down  the  room, 
while  a  voice  said  sharply :  "Now,  boys,  time  to  get  up !" 
It  required  no  great  effort  that  morning  for  Adam  defi- 
nitely to  shake  off  slumber  and  swing  himself  out  of  bed. 
He  had  already  learnt  that  there  was  no  question  of  having 
a  morning  tub  or  any  hot  water ;  it  was  no  joke  washing  the 
whole  of  his  person  in  that  narrow  space  between  the  par- 
tition wall  and  the  bed,  but  he  managed  it  somehow  by  in- 
stalments, though  he  splashed  the  whole  place  with  water 
when  he  sat  in  his  basin ;  the  water  coursing  along  the  floor 
into  the  gangway  drew  the  dormitory  prefect's  attention, 
and  Adam,  sitting  in  his  little  shirt  on  the  bed,  with  his  feet 
in  the  basin,  was  roused  by  the  startled  question:  "Have 
you  had  an  accident?":  through  round  spectacles  the  no  less 
startled  infantile  eyes  of  the  prefect  gazed  on  him,  imme- 


92  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

diately  to  disappear  again  with  a  murmured  "Oh !  that's  all 
right,  that's  all  right,  I  thought  you'd  had  an  accident,  I 
didn't  know  you  were  washing,  I  thought  you'd  had  an 
accident."  The  voice  sped  off  repeating  as  it  went,  "I  didn't 
know  you  were  washing,  I  thought  you'd  had  an  accident, 
I  didn't  know  you  were  washing,  that's  all  right,  I  didn't 
know  you  were  washing,  that's  all  right,  I  thought — "  and 
so  deceased.  Adam  was  still  brushing  his  teeth  when  the 
voice  came  again :  "Hurry  up,  my  boy,  hurry  up !  No  time 
to  lose,  you'll  be  late  for  chapel." 

Adam  protested  respectfully:  "I'm  brushing  my  teeth, 
sir,"  and  the  voice  answered,  "Never  mind  that  now,  you'll 
be  late  for  chapel."  And  in  effect  Adam  was  the  last,  or 
one  of  the  last,  of  a  queue  of  tousled  little  boys  clattering 
downstairs  and  along  an  endless  corridor  into  the  chapel, 
where  a  voice  was  already  saying:  "In  the  name  of  the 
Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen." 
Which  set  Adam  thinking  at  once  upon  the  question  of  Mr. 
O'Toole. 

Nevertheless,  he  made  his  responses  with  proper  energy 
and  impressed  the  prefect  in  charge  as  being  a  pious  as  well 
as  an  exceptionally  tidy  little  boy.  And  not  only  was  the 
prefect  impressed  by  him,  particularly  by  his  clean  and 
rather  pretty  color  as  he  came  panting  to  his  place,  but  he 
was  unconscious  of  being  noticed  favorably  or  otherwise: 
he  was  preoccupied  with  alternate  thoughts  about  his  rela- 
tionship to  Mr.  O'Toole  and  the  hope  that  he  would  be 
given  tea  for  breakfast  that  would  be  less  undrinkable  than 
that  which  had  almost  turned  his  stomach  on  his  arrival  the 
night  before. 

Alas,  the  tea  at  breakfast  seemed  almost  worse  than  he 
had  drunk  the  night  before;  but  his  neighbor,  a  red-haired 
boy  from  Kerry,  insisted  that  it  could  not  be  worse.  "For 
sure,"  said  he,  "it's  the  same  mucky  old  tea  over  again,  the 


ADAM  BIDDEN  TO  KEEP  THE  FAITH         93 

same  as  you  had  last  night,  only  maybe  with  more  jollop 
in  it." 

Adam  wondered  what  "jollop"  was,  but  his  instinct  told 
him  that  it  would  be  indelicate  to  inquire.  "It  makes  me 
sick,  the  taste  of  it,"  said  he. 

The  other  boy  leered  at  him  mockingly.  "You've  a 
mighty  fine  stomach,"  said  he,  "for  I  never  heard  of  jollop 
making  anyone  sick  yet.  .  .  .  Sure  isn't  it  there  to  keep 
you  from  being  sick  ?" 

"Is  it?"  said  Adam  politely.     "I  didn't  know." 

His  neighbor  called  down  the  table,  "Say,  you  fellows, 
here's  a  beggar  didn't  know  what  jollop  was  for." 

Some  boys  seemed  amused  by  this  and  others  not.  Adam 
felt  that  he  preferred  the  boys  who  did  not.  He  looked 
about  the  room  wishing  he  could  catch  sight  of  the  boy 
who  had  driven  up  from  the  station  with  him  the  night 
before,  but  he  was  not  visible  ...  he  tried  to  discover 
from  his  neighbors  who  he  was,  but  not  being  able  to  give 
him  a  name  or  describe  him  in  terms  which  called  up  any 
image  to  their  inattentive  minds,  he  got  no  help  from  them. 
At  his  own  table,  but  not  near  him,  sat  the  boy  who  had 
assailed  him  in  the  train ;  Adam  had  seen  him  also  about  the 
passages  and  was  under  the  impression  that  he  occupied  one 
of  the  cubicles  in  his  dormitory,  but  he  vouchsafed  no  more 
than  a  surly  half -nod  of  recognition ;  on  the  other  hand, 
Adam  saw  from  the  glances  of  his  neighbors  that  his  tongue 
had  not  been  silent  on  the  subject  of  their  meeting.  What- 
ever he  may  have  said  on  that  subject  no  one  since  then 
had  offered  to  bully  him  .  .  .  the  worst  thing  that  had  hap- 
pened at  Clongowes  so  far  was  the  tea;  but  there  was  no 
gainsaying  that  was  a  very  evil  thing  indeed.  After  break- 
fast Adam's  impressions  began  to  blur  again ;  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  indeterminate  hurrying  about  up  corridors  and 
down  corridors,  into  class-rooms  and  out  of  class-rooms, 


94  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

into  the  great  study  over  the  refectory  and  out  of  it  again, 
and  down  to  the  box-room  to  unpack  things  and  so  on ; 
and  a  great  deal  of  ringing  of  the  big  bell  at  the  angle  of 
the  two  great  corridors  and  an  hour  or  so  in  the  playground 
which  bored  him  stiff,  for  he  was  quite  without  the  art  of 
playing  with  other  boys  and  without  the  desire  to  acquire 
it.  What  he  would  have  liked  to  do  was  to  take  out  his 
bicycle  on  the  cinder-path,  he  had  never  ridden  a  bicycle  on 
a  cinder-path  yet,  but  he  felt  that  etiquette  if  nothing  else 
forbade  a  new  boy  to  do  this  at  once. 

As  a  set-off  against  this,  Mr.  Beam,  finding  him  standing 
alone  near  the  cricket-patch  on  the  Third  Line  playing- 
ground,  gave  him  a  few  kind  words  in  the  intervals  of 
keeping  the  peace  among  his  brawnier  charges,  and  as  he 
walked  back  alone  from  the  play-ground  a  kindly  hand  was 
laid  on  his  shoulder  from  behind  and  he  found  himself  look- 
ing up  in  the  face  of  Father  Bernard  James. 

"Adam,  my  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "tell  me,  are  you  happy 
at  Clongowes?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Adam  mechanically,  adding  with  caution : 
"I  mean,  sir,  I  hope  to  be." 

Father  James  smiled  genially.  "That  is  right,"  said  he, 
"if  you  hope  to  be  happy  you  will  be  happy  .  .  .  always 
provided  that  you  hope  in  the  right  spirit  ...  and  I  know 
you  have  the  right  spirit." 

"How  do  you  know,  sir?"  Adam  asked. 

Father  James  laughed  outright,  though  very  softly  and 
as  it  were  roundly,  "God  bless  you  my  dear  boy,  we  know 
all  about  you  here,"  and  then  gravely,  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross  upon  his  forehead,  he  added,  "Keep  the  faith, 
Adam  Macfadden." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
FATHER  CLARE'S  SURPRISING  OBSERVATION 

YES,  Adam's  hope  that  he  should  be  happy  at  Clongowes 
seemed  quite  likely  of  fulfilment.  To  begin  with,  everyone 
he  met,  at  all  events  among  those  in  authority,  spoke  to  him 
as  if  their  intentions  towards  him  were  at  least  kindly;  and 
Adam,  even  more  than  other  boys,  was  susceptible  to  the 
veriest  implication  of  kindliness.  He  was  willing  to  believe 
that  he  was  being  treated  well  even  when  he  was  not.  At 
Clongowes  none  apparently  sought  to  treat  him  ill :  Mr. 
Beam,  the  Third  Line  Prefect,  was  notably  kind,  being, 
indeed,  kind  to  all  but  a  few  obviously  provocative  boys. 
.  .  .  Adam  thought  to  some  he  was  foolishly  kind ;  for 
many  who  showed  the  Prefect  a  servile  face  mocked  at  him 
and  his  slightly  finicking  way  behind  his  back.  Father 
Bernard  James,  too,  in  an  older  and  more  sophisticated 
manner,  the  fine  shades  of  which  Adam  was  yet  too  young 
to  analyze,  showed  him  a  winning  amiability. 

Less  attractive  in  person,  but  perhaps  most  appreciative 
of  all,  was  Father  Clare,  the  master  of  the  class  in  which 
Adam  was  placed,  confessedly  as  an  experiment :  he  was 
young  for  Father  Clare's  Class,  but  Father  Clare  seemed 
anxious  to  keep  him  in  it  if  he  himself  did  not  shirk  the 
work.  A  short  man  and  stout  was  Father  Clare :  he  looked 
to  Adam  to  bear  a  refined  and  spiritualized  resemblance  to 
Lady  Eland's  butler  .  .  .  even  he  who  had  introduced  him 
to  the  dread  luxury  of  a  bath  in  her  ladyship's  house  in 
Fitzwilliam  Square,  in  those  distant  days  when  he  was  still 
a  little  ragamuffin,  dreading  soap  and  its  smell  rather  worse 

95 


96 

than  the  brimstone  which  his  father  had  prophesied  would 
make  an  end  of  Mr.  O'Toole.  .  .  .  Adam  was  a  little 
shocked  to  know  that  this  bright  and  engaging  little  priest 
was  known  to  his  pupils,  simply  by  reason  of  his  hooked 
nose  and  rounded  tummy,  as  "The  Toucan."  .  .  .  True, 
Adam  did  not  know  what  a  toucan  was,  but  he  judged  from 
a  drawing  that  appeared  one  day  on  the  blackboard  ere 
Father  Clare  entered  the  class-room  that  it  was  some  absurd 
kind  of  bird  .  .  .  reference  to  the  natural  history  book  in 
the  Third  Line  library  confirmed  this  impression.  So  much 
so  that  Adam  regretted  consulting  it;  for  the  picture  of  the 
toucan  there  so  closely  resembled  Father  Clare  in  certain 
aspects  at  his  less  dignified  moments  that  Adam  himself, 
grateful  as  he  was  to  him,  and  conscious  of  his  essential 
goodness  underlying  his  grotesqueness,  dared  not  always 
look  him  in  the  face.  .  .  .  Making  his  first  confession  to 
Father  Bernard  James,  Adam  expressed  his  contrition  for 
his  inability  to  refrain  from  laughing  at  Father  Clare ;  but 
even  saintly  Father  James  did  not  appear  to  think  that  it 
greatly  mattered  whether  one  laughed  at  Father  Clare  or 
not. 

Father  Clare  himself  was  quite  unconscious  of  any  lack 
of  respect  on  Adam's  part,  and  showed  as  real  a  desire  to 
help  him  in  his  work  and  to  further  his  education  within 
his  own  limitations  as  had  Father  Strong  or  anyone  else  at 
Belvedere.  Adam  found  himself  once  again  really  inter- 
ested in  Latin  and  eager  to  avail  himself  of  his  new  master's 
good  offices  in  introducing  him  to  Greek.  .  .  .  English  came 
to  him  so  naturally  that  he  could  keep  his  place  in  the  class 
at  that  without  consciously  studying  it  ...  the  question 
now  arose:  should  he  study  Gaelic?  .  .  .  Happy  thought! 
He  would  ask  Father  Clare,  and  accept  his  decision. 

"Gaelic,"  said  Father  Clare,  "Gaelic!  You  are  good 
enough  to  ask  me  whether  I  think  you  ought  to  devote  your 
attention  to  the  study  of  Gaelic.  Well,  well,  Gaelic — Ha! 


FATHER  CLARE'S  OBSERVATION  97 

hum !  the  question  is  whether  I  should  advise  you  to  study 
Gaelic  or  not.  .  .  .  Am  I  right  in  saying  that  that  is  the 
case?" 

Adam  answered  very  respectfully :  "Yes,  sir,  it  is,"  though 
he  was  suffering  inwardly  from  a  desire  to  grimace  or 
worse  over  Father  Clare's  immediate  and  pressing  effort, 
as  it  were,  to  realize  the  picture  of  the  toucan  in  the  natural 
history  book,  a  resemblance  that  was  made  all  the  more 
absurd  because  Father  Clare  happened  to  be  wearing  his 
biretta,  a  head-dress  which  threw  up  into  preposterous  re- 
lief the  more  toucanesque  of  his  features.  The  conversa- 
tion took  place,  not  in  the  class-room,  but  in  the  corridor 
between  the  school  house  and  the  old  building,  where  they 
had  happened  to  meet  outside  the  minister's  door;  between 
that  and  the  door  by  the  refectory,  up  and  down  the  passage, 
his  master  marched  him  while  they  discussed  the  subject; 
and  Adam  could  not  help  noticing  that,  keeping  step  with 
the  plump  priest,  his  young  feet  rebelliously  outpaced  the 
man's:  even  in  the  matter  of  his  legs  poor  Father  Clare 
resembled  a  toucan. 

But  the  mentality  behind  the  ludicrous  mouth  was  not  the 
dullest  Adam  encountered  on  his  way  through  the  world. 
Father  Clare  was  an  educationalist  not  merely  by  accident 
but  by  temperament :  he  loved  to  learn,  and  even  to  impart 
learning,  despite  the  dire  physical  handicap  under  which  he 
labored,  to  all  he  could  persuade  to  listen  to  him.  For 
Adam's  hearing  and  heeding  little  brain  he  had  conceived 
an  almost  passionate  affection.  While  he  walked  apparently 
so  foolishly  up  and  down,  repeating  in  his  chattering  tone, 
"Gaelic:  is  that  the  question?"  in  his  heart  he  was  praying 
that  he  might  advise  this  young  mind,  that  had  honored  him 
by  seeking  his  advice,  with  a  wisdom  that  was  worthy  of  his 
confidence.  His  instinctive  prejudice,  strengthened  in  him 
by  his  own  schooling,  was  in  favor  of  the  curriculum  com- 
mon to  all  Jesuit  schools  since  the  first  was  opened  at 


98  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Salamanca.  But  he  strove  manfully  to  suppress  all  preju- 
dice in  advising  Adam. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "I  am  nothing  of  a  Gaelic  scholar 
.  .  .  for  the  matter  of  that,  I  am  not  a  scholar  at  all.  But 
I  mean  that,  while  I  can  speak  Latin  perhaps  better  than  the 
average  man  who  is  not  a  scholar,  and  can  read  Greek 
fairly  fluently,  at  all  events  well  enough  to  be  interested  in 
it,  I  cannot  speak  Gaelic  at  all  nor  read  any  difficult  text 
without  the  help  of  at  least  the  dictionary  ...  so,  in  a 
purely  literary  sense,  it  would  be  vain  of  me  to  pretend  to 
be  able  to  decide  the  value  of  Gaelic  as  compared  with 
Latin  or  Greek."  He  put  his  arm  through  Adam's:  "Tell 
me,  did  you  think  of  studying  it  as  a  living  or  a  dead 
language  ?" 

It  had  not  occurred  to  Adam  whether  he  regarded  Gaelic 
as  a  living  or  a  dead  language :  he  could  not  even  decide,  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  whether  he  thought  of  it  as  a  living 
language  or  not.  He  hazarded  the  question:  "There  are 
people  speaking  Gaelic  still?" 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  Father  Clare;  "in  Ireland  alone 
there  are  many  thousands  who  have  practically  no  other 
language." 

"Then,"  said  Adam,  "it  is  a  living  language,  isn't  it?" 

Father  Clare  hesitated,  anxious  not  to  give  an  unfair 
answer :  the  easy  official  answer,  not  necessarily  untrue,  that 
it  was  moribund.  "Gaelic  is,  in  a  very  real  sense,  a  very 
special  sense,  a  most  excellent  sense,  a  living  language," 
said  he;  "for  some  of  the  liveliest  brains  in  Ireland  are 
devoting  themselves  to  the  task  of  making  it  again  the 
dominant  language  of  the  Irish  nation."  He  coughed,  as 
though  to  turn  things  over  in  his  mind.  "I  am  assuming, 
for  the  sake  of  this  discussion,  that  there  is  an  Irish  nation 
.  .  .  many  hold  that  there  is  not  .  .  .  but  I  myself  incline 
to  the  view  that  there  is  an  Irish  nation  .  .  .  rightly  or 


FATHER  CLARE'S  OBSERVATION  99 

wrongly,  there  is  an  Irish  nation  .  .  .  yes,  there  is  an  Irish 
nation." 

"What,  exactly,  sir,"  Adam  asked,  "what,  exactly,  is  a 
nation  ?" 

Father  Clare  paused,  and  clapped  him  on  the  back :  "Ah, 
there,"  said  he,  "there  you  have  a  very  old  and  difficult 
question.  What  is  a  nation?  ...  I  don't  know  whether 
you  have  ever  read  Shakespeare's  Henry  V.t" 

Adam  confessed  he  had  not.  The  world  of  the  theater, 
even  in  its  printed  form,  was  not  intimately  known  to  him ; 
Hamlet  he  had  read,  and  Macbeth,  and  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
perhaps  some  others  he  had  glanced  into,  but  he  found  them 
difficult  reading  and  dull,  save  for  a  few  set  speeches  here 
and  there ;  Macbeth  was  the  only  one  that  held  his  attention, 
without  too  many  breaks  of  incomprehensible  matter. 

"In  Henry  V.,"  said  Father  Clare,  "we  have  Shake- 
speare's only  portrait  of  an  Irishman  ...  it  is  not  a  very 
flattering  portrait :  he  represents  him  as  a  noisy  and  quarrel- 
some soldier,  and  makes  him  the  more  foolish  by  contrasting 
him  with  a  perhaps  equally  quarrelsome  but  less  fatuous 
Welshman." 

Adam's  patriotic  spirit  was  up  in  arms  at  once :  "I  never 
could  stand  Welshmen,  sir,"  said  he. 

Father  Clare  turned  to  look  at  him.  "Is  that  so?"  he 
said  gently.  "Now,  tell  me  why." 

Adam,  somewhat  at  a  loss,  replied :  "Taffy  was  a  Welsh- 
man, Taffy  was  a  thief,  Taffy  came  to  my  house  .  .  ."  but 
felt  this  was  an  overstatement,  and  stopped. 

"Do  you  mean,"  Father  Clare  asked,  "that  you  yourself 
know  a  Welshman  who  is  a  thief?" 

Adam  indignantly  disclaimed  all  personal  knowledge  of 
Welshmen;  whereupon  Father  Clare  sighed.  "I  did  not 
expect  you,  Adam,  to  talk  so  foolishly,"  said  he. 

Adam,  rather  irritated  than  crushed,  regretted  that  he  had 


loo  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

done  Father  Clare  the  honor  to  consult  him  about  his 
studies. 

But  Father  Clare  was  too  interested  in  his  educational 
ideas  to  notice  more  than  very  superficially  Adam's  fallen 
face.  "It  is  always  foolish  to  repeat  cant  phrases  about 
things,  and  more  especially  persons,  of  whom  we  have  no 
actual  knowledge.  When  Shakespeare  painted  his  Irish 
soldier,  and  painted  him  as  a  braggart,  if  not  actually  a  base 
fellow,  he  gives  us  the  impression  that  the  portrait,  however 
malicious,  is  done  from  life.  .  .  ." 

Adam's  quick  brain  and  almost  quicker  tongue  inter- 
posed :  "But  didn't  Shakespeare  live  in  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Father  Clare;  "he  was  born 
in  1564,  when  she  had  not  been  long  on  the  throne,  and 
died  in  1616,  just  thirteen  years  later  than  she." 

"Then  Henry  V."  said  Adam,  "was  dead  near  a  century 
and  a  half  before  Shakespeare  was  born;  so  how  could  he 
have  painted  one  of  Henry's  soldiers  from  life?" 

"True,"  said  Father  Clare,  "he  could  not,  and  I  appreciate 
your  smartness  in  raising  that  objection;  but  he  could  paint 
an  Irish  soldier  of  his  own  time  from  life,  couldn't  he?" 

"I  suppose  he  could,"  Adam  reluctantly  admitted,  adding, 
still  unwilling  to  concede  the  point,  "if  he  knew  how." 

"I  think  we  may  take  it,"  Father  Clare  smilingly  said, 
"I  think  we  may  take  it  that  Shakespeare  knew  how."  He 
cleared  his  throat  and  added,  a  little  in  the  manner  of  Mr. 
Flood  at  Belvedere,  but  with  less  youthful  pomposity: 
"Shakespeare  was  a  man  of  genius." 

"What,  exactly,  is  genius?"  Adam  asked. 

Father  Clare  answered  with  trepidation :  "Let  us  take  one 
question  at  a  time.  You  asked  me  just  now  what  was  a 
nation,  and  I  was  about  to  tell  you  that  Shakespeare's  Irish 
soldier,  Captain  Macmorris,  asks  more  or  less  the  same 
question:  'What  is  my  nation?'  he  says,  'What  is  my 


FATHER  CLARE'S  OBSERVATION  101 

nation?"3  Father  Clare  abruptly  stopped.  "After  all, 
what  does  it  matter  what  he  says?  The  question  is  not 
what  Shakespeare  thought  but  what  we  think  a  nation  is." 

As  he  fell  silent,  Adam  volunteered  the  observation  that 
he  himself  had  not  thought  very  much  about  it.  Father 
Clare  seemed  rather  relieved  at  this  than  otherwise.  "To 
tell  you  the  truth,  Adam,"  said  he,  "I  do  not  think  it  of 
very  great  importance  for  you  to  know  what  a  nation  is; 
the  great  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  learn  your  lessons: 
politics  we  can  leave  till  later  on.  .  .  .  Speaking  for  myself, 
as  a  priest  I  have,  of  course,  no  politics." 

Adam  remembered  that  the  first  time  he  had  met  the 
Provincial,  that  is  to  say,  the  head  of  all  the  Jesuits  in  Ire- 
land, Father  Muldoon,  that  great  man  had  insisted  on  this 
point  of  priests  having  no  politics;  promptly,  the  question 
framed  itself  on  his  lips:  "Why  have  priests  no  politics?" 

Equally  promptly  Father  Clare  answered :  "Because  they 
are  priests  .  .  .  and  priests  are,  or  ought  to  be,  exclusively 
concerned  with  religion."  He  patted  Adam's  shoulder: 
"You  understand  that,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Adam  politely,  though  as  a  matter  of 
fact  he  did  not. 

Father  Clare  looked  at  his  watch :  "But  we  were  discuss- 
ing the  question  whether  you  ought  to  learn  Gaelic,  and  my 
advice  to  you,  on  the  whole,  is,  that  you  will  not  try  to  learn 
more  at  present  than  you  are  already  learning;  you  are  one 
of  those  boys  who  can  learn  anything,  and  learn  it  pretty 
easily;  your  pit-fall  in  life,  so  far  as  your  education  goes, 
will  be  a  tendency  to  acquire  a  smattering  of  everything  and, 
perhaps,  learn  nothing  really  well.  My  advice,  for  what  it 
is  worth,  is  not  to  try  to  learn  more  than  you  are  doing  now ; 
but  if  you  want  to  learn  Gaelic  I  will  not  stand  in  your 
way.  Even  before  taking  a  final  decision,  I  would  advise 
you  to  talk  to  Father  O'Gorman:  he  is,  as  you  know,  a 
real  Gaelic  scholar;  I  warn  you  that  if  you  take  up  Gaelic 


102  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

under  him  he  will  not  allow  you  to  play  with  it,  as  many 
masters  would." 

"I  think,"  said  Adam,  "I'll  leave  Gaelic  alone  for  the 
present." 

Father  Clare  held  his  hand  a  moment,  and  his  absurd, 
bird-like  eyes  had  a  wistful,  anxious  look  as  he  said :  "Mind 
you,  you  mustn't  let  me  influence  you;  I  may  be  wrong; 
and  any  time  you  want  to  see  Father  O'Gorman  I'll  put 
your  case  before  him.  He  and  I  don't  agree  about  every- 
thing, but  he  is  far  more  learned  than  I,  and  I  would  bow 
to  his  decision." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  trouble  him  yet,  anyhow,"  said  Adam ; 
"I  see  you  don't  think  Gaelic  is  necessary,  and  I'm  pretty 
sure  Mr.  Macarthy  doesn't  think  so  either." 

Father  Clare,  about  to  release  him,  turned  and  caught 
his  hand  again.  "Mr.  Macarthy?"  he  repeated,  "What  Mr. 
Macarthy  is  that?" 

"My  guardian,"  Adam  answered,  "Mr.  Stephen  Mac- 
arthy." 

Father  Clare  lifted  his  biretta  and  put  it  on  the  back  of 
his  head.  "Mr.  Stephen  Macarthy?"  He  took  a  pinch  of 
snuff.  "Not  Stephen  Macarthy  who  was  here  at  Clongowes 
years  and  years  ago?" 

"He  was  at  Clongowes,  sir,"  Adam  answered.  "I  don't 
know  how  long  ago,  but  he  told  me  he  was  here  at  my  age," 
he  added  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  "and  that's  why  I'm  here 
now." 

"Dear,  dear,  to  think  of  it!"  said  Father  Clare.  "To 
think  of  Stephen  Macarthy  being  your  guardian."  He 
broke  off,  and  asked,  with  an  absurd  air  of  suspicion,  "Are 
you  sure  Father  Muldoon  isn't  your  guardian  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  Adam  answered  firmly,  "he  is  not.  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy is  my  real  guardian." 

Father  Clare's  curiosity  carried  him  away,  and  he  became 
for  a  moment  as  a  talkative  parrot.  "You're  sure  Stephen 


FATHER  CLARE'S  OBSERVATION  103 

Macarthy  is  your  guardian?  ...  I  thought  it  was  Father 
Muldoon.  .  .  .  But  it's  Stephen  Macarthy.  ...  To  be  sure, 
to  be  sure,  Stephen  Macarthy,  your  guardian — well,  well." 
He  looked  at  Adam  very  hard :  "Why,  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  you're  the  living  image  of  him."  He  broke  off,  and 
crushed  his  biretta  down  on  his  nose.  "Never  mind  now, 
never  mind ;  good-by,  good-by,  God  bless  you."  He  heaved 
a  deep  sigh.  "Stephen  Macarthy,  Stephen  Macarthy,  we 
were  boys  here  together."  He  dropped  his  voice  mys- 
teriously. "I'll  tell  you  a  little  secret,  Adam:  Stephen 
Macarthy  was  a  great  loss  to  the  Church,  and  I  wonder 
now  if  God  in  His  Providence  has  not  sent  you  here  to  take 
his  place."  He  shook  his  hand  once  more.  "Good-by, 
Adam  Macarthy;  God  bless  you." 

Adam  had  reached  the  door  to  the  school  house  when 
he  called  him  back  hurriedly.  "Adam,"  he  cried,  "Adam!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Adam,  turning  back,  and  finding  him  in 
great  confusion. 

"Did  I  say  Macarthy  just  now?  I  meant  of  course, 
Macfadden,"  he  chattered,  and  added  what  seemed  to  Adam 
the  astounding  sentence :  "You  need  not  tell  anyone  what  I 
said  to  you  about  Mr.  Macfadden  being  a  great  loss  to  the 
Church." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ADAM  IS  ADVISED  NOT  TO  DISCUSS  HIS 
MOTHER 

ADAM  had  not  been  a  week  at  Clongowes  ere  he  forgot  the 
hardness  of  his  bed ;  he  had  not  been  there  a  fortnight  be- 
fore he  ceased  to  struggle  with  the  difficulties  in  washing 
himself,  and  was  content  to  be  as  Isabel-colored  with  regard 
to  those  parts  of  him  not  exposed  to  the  air,  as  were  the 
other  boys  .  .  .  that  cleanliness  is  next  to  godliness  has 
never  been  an  article  of  faith  in  the  Catholic  Church  .  .  . 
perhaps  it  is  a  pagan  virtue  .  .  .  perhaps,  when  all  is  said 
and  done,  there  is  no  virtue  in  it.  ...  Anyhow,  Adam  was 
content  to  do  as  Rome  does :  he  was  as  tidy  as  any  other 
boy,  perhaps  the  tidiest  of  those  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.  Other  things  there  were  at  Clongowes  to  which 
he  easily  accommodated  himself,  but  there  was  one  which, 
twice  a  day,  roused  him  to  physical  and  mental  revolt  .  .  . 
The  tea.  The  thought  of  that  tea  haunted  his  sleep,  and 
one  morning  in  the  third  week  he  was  at  the  school  he 
thought  of  it  at  morning  prayer,  and  that  thought,  on  an 
empty  stomach  so  early  in  the  morning,  chased  him  out  of 
chapel.  .  .  .  He  had  barely  cleared  the  sacred  precincts  when 
it  seemed.to  him  that  all  the  tea  he  had  tried  to  drink  since 
he  left  Dublin  was  up  in  arms  against  him,  determined  to 
make  a  sight  of  him  before  the  world.  .  .  .  He  was  not 
quite  clear  what  happened,  but  he  heard  a  lay-brother  say, 
"Dear,  dear,  what's  that  now;  what's  that?"  and  he  was 
marched  down  the  breezy  covered  way  dividing  the  school 
house  from  the  infirmary. 

In  the  infirmary,  a  lady  bearing  an  astounding  resem- 

104 


ADAM  IS  ADVISED  105 

blance  to  Attracta  grown  rather  elderly,  in  spectacles,  looked 
at  his  tongue  and  prescribed  for  him.  He  understood  her 
to  say  that  she  didn't  think  him  bilious,  and  that  she  was 
asking  him  if  he  suffered  from  nerves,  and  Adam  politely 
answered  that  perhaps  he  suffered  a  little  from  nerves,  but 
he  thought  he  suffered  much  more  from  the  tea.  The  lady 
smiled  sympathetically.  "1  wouldn't  drink  that  tea,"  said 
she,  "if  I  was  never  so.  Would  you  like  a  cup  of  my 
own?" 

Adam  said  he  would,  and  it  was  given  him ;  and  this  kind 
lady,  confident  in  her  diagnosis  that  he  was  not  bilious, 
added  several  rounds  of  buttered  toast,  which  he  consumed 
with  greater  gusto  than  anything  he  had  touched  for  some 
weeks.  Then  the  two  of  them  talked  about  literature  in  which 
they  were  equally  interested,  although  it  did  not  appear  that 
she  was  acquainted  with  any  of  the  works  in  which  he  was 
interested,  nor  he  with  any  which  interested  her;  still,  their 
conversation  was  very  friendly;  for  she  told  him  many  of 
the  best  passages  from  Handy  Andy,  laughing  over  them 
the  while,  and  he  for  his  part  recited  to  her  the  Ode  to  a 
Grecian  Urn,  to  be  rewarded  by  the  observation  that  she 
would  have  liked  it  better  if  it  had  been  an  Irish  urn. 

"Are  there  Irish  urns?"  Adam  asked,  glad  to  find  some- 
one acquainted  with  the  question  of  urns. 

"Of  course  there  are,"  said  she;  "the  country's  full  of 
them.  My  sister  was  housekeeper  to  Canon  Fricker  at 
Killinaman,  and  his  reverence  had  three  and  more  he  never 
used." 

"What  are  urns  really  used  for?"  Adam  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  surprisedly.  "Wasn't  I  telling  you 
his  reverence  never  used  them  at  all?"  she  said,  and 
would  have  been  for  dropping  the  subject  if  Adam  had  not 
clung  to  it. 

"Were  they  at  all  like  Grecian  urns?"  he  asked. 

"What's  a  Grecian  urn  like  ?"  asked  she,  and  he  was  still 


io6  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

undecided  whether  to  give  it  up  or  repeat  the  poem  over 
again  very  slowly  so  that  she  could  question  him  on  any 
point  that  she  thought  needed  clearing  up,  when  the  kitchen 
door  opened  and  Father  Denver  came  in.  Father  Denver 
was  the  minister,  a  portly  priest  and  not  very  young,  but 
with  a  quick  and  joyful  step  and  a  round  and  jovial  voice,  in 
no  way  resembling  the  Jesuit  of  the  Evangelical  or  even 
the  Benedictine  tradition,  a  man  incapable  of  crooked 
or  cruel  acts.  So  far  Adam  had  seen  little  of  him,  but  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  as  if  they  were  the  oldest  friends  and 
roared  with  a  benevolent  laugh:  "Well,  well,  just  look  at 
him !  To  see  the  poor  sick  fellow  filling  his  rum-turn  with 
the  buttered  toast.  Run  for  the  doctor,  run  for  the  doctor." 
This  exhortation  was  addressed  to  empty  air.  The  lady  in 
charge  of  the  infirmary  said  she  did  not  think  there  was 
much  the  matter  with  Adam. 

Father  Denver  gravely  waggled  his  head  from  side  to 
side:  "Tut,  tut,"  he  said,  "a  dreadful  case,  a  dreadful 
case.  .  .  .  Buttered  toast  on  the  brain  and  visibly  working 
downwards.  Whatever  shall  we  do?" 

"I  think,"  said  the  lady,  "he  might  go  back  to  the 
school  now." 

But  Father  Denver  still  shook  his  head.  "Oh,  no,  no, 
no,"  said  he,  "never  do.  Smelling  of  buttered  toast  like 
that,  he'd  corrupt  an  angel.  We'd  have  the  whole  school 
coming  in  here  to  eat  buttered  toast."  Then  he  came  down 
to  business.  "I  hear  you  don't  like  our  tea,"  said  he. 

Adam  confessed  that  he  did  not. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Father  Denver,  "we'll  compro- 
mise over  it.  In  future  you  shall  come  to  second  breakfast, 
where  they  bring  you  a  fresh  pot  of  tea  all  to  yourself ;  but 
in  the  evening,  if  you  want  to  drink  tea  at  all,  I'm  afraid 
you'll  have  to  drink  what's  good  enough  for  the  boys. 
How's  that  now?" 

Adam  thanked  him  very  heartily,  as  indeed  he  had  reason 


ADAM  IS  ADVISED  107 

to  be  grateful,  for  second  breakfast  with  the  select  half- 
dozen  proved  to  be  a  very  cozy  meal,  quite  unlike  any  other. 
You  had  unstinted  rolls  and  butter  and  what  seemed  to  him, 
after  the  past  few  weeks,  the  most  exquisitely  fragrant 
freshly-made  tea.  Could  he  have  had  the  same  thing  at 
night,  the  -cup  of  his  physical  happiness  had  been  full  to 
overflowing  ...  as  it  was,  he  consoled  himself  at  supper 
by  the  thought  of  how  much  he  would  enjoy  his  break- 
fast. 

Also,  second  breakfast  was  to  be  enjoyed  for  the  reason 
that  he  found  among  the  little  company  there  the  pleasant 
boy  who  had  driven  with  him  on  the  car  from  Sallins  sta- 
tion ;  his  name  was  Dominic  Cahill.  He  was  in  the  Lower 
Line,  and  two  classes  higher  than  Adam  in  the  school,  but 
condescended  to  him  without  any  show  of  arrogance.  Soon 
he  came  into  Adam's  prayers  for  those  he  loved. 

Dominic  Cahill,  it  took  Adam  a  little  time  to  realize,  was 
one  of  the  brightest  lights  of  the  school :  he  had  an  extraor- 
dinary capacity  for  learning  what  he  was  taught  while  shut- 
ting his  apprehension  and  locking  it  against  the  possibility 
of  any  casual  knowledge.  Give  him  the  dullest  school  book 
and  he  would  faithfully  commit  it  to  memory  .  .  .  but  he 
could  read  the  newspaper  through  without  understanding  a 
word  of  it.  In  him  Adam  felt  that  he  had  found  his  intel- 
lectual complement ;  for  they  had  no  common  knowledge 
but  much  common  kindliness. 

Adam  opened  their  conversation  by  introducing  himself 
as  the  boy  whom  Master  Cahill  had  helped  on  to  the  outside 
car  at  Sallins  station  some  weeks  before,  and  he  had  the 
kindly  answer,  "I  remember  you.  How's  your  ankle?" 

Adam  thanked  him  and  said  his  ankle  was  quite  all  right. 
"I  only  had  a  bit  of  a  kick  on  it,"  he  explained.  .  .  .  Domi- 
nic said  kicks  could  be  very  sore,  and  Adam,  quite  forgetful 
of  the  one  that  he  himself  had  launched  into  a  vital  part  of 
his  putative  father,  said  they  didn't  hurt  really. 


io8  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Dominic  Cahill  gazed  at  him  with  a  grave,  lovable,  ox- 
like  eyes.  "You  are  a  brave  lad,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  go  on,"  said  Adam,  "not  a  bit."  Though  he  knew 
himself  to  have  fished  shamelessly  for  some  such  tribute 
to  his  valor. 

He  was  unprepared  for  his  companion's  next  speech.  "I 
hope  you  are  as  brave  as  that  morally.  .  .  .  It's  easier  to  be 
brave  physically  than  morally."  Having  said  this,  Dominic 
winced,  and  added:  "I  know  I  sound  awfully  priggish, 
because  I'm  not  good  at  expressing  myself,  but  what  I  say 
is  true  ...  at  least  I  think  so.  ...  I  mean,  I've  been 
told  so." 

Adam  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  originality  was  not  his 
new  friend's  salient  characteristic,  but  he  felt  no  desire  to 
laugh  at  him  any  more  than  he  had  desired  to  laugh  at 
Father  Innocent.  "Yes,"  said  Adam,  "I've  heard  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy  say  the  same  thing." 

"Mr.  Macarthy?"  repeated  Dominic;  "is  that  the  same 
Mr.  Macarthy  you  spoke  of  before?" 

"Yes,"  said  Adam,  who  really  was  under  the  impression 
that  there  was  only  one  Mr.  Macarthy  in  the  world  and 
that  everyone  ought  to  know  all  about  him. 

But  Dominic  Cahill's  school  books  said  nothing  of  Mr. 
Macarthy,  nothing  of  any  living  Macarthy,  so  Dominic  dis- 
creetly asked  for  more  information  about  him. 

Now  that  it  came  to  the  point,  Adam  found  it  difficult  to 
say  anything  very  informative  about  his  guardian.  He  fur- 
nished Dominic  with  his  full  name  and  address,  and  then 
the  fountain  of  his  information  ran  momentarily  dry. 

Dominic  tried  to  help  him.  "I  see,"  said  he,  "he's  your 
guardian,  and  he  lives  in  Mountjoy  Square,  Dublin." 

"Yes,"  said  Adam,  buttering  his  roll,  "that's  it:  he's  my 
guardian,  and  lives  in  Mountjoy  Square,  Dublin." 

"And,  of  course,  he's  a  very  kind  man,"  Dominic  took 
for  granted. 


ADAM  IS  ADVISED  109 

"Fearfully  kind,"  Adam  gurgled  enthusiastically,  with 
his  buttered  roll  in  one  hand  and  his  tea-cup  in  the  other, 
and  his  mouth  compounding  the  contents  of  both. 

Cahill  further  predicted  that  he  was  a  good  Catholic,  and 
then  Adam  nodded  vigorously:  "Topping!"  said  he,  and 
then  emptied  his  mouth  to  add:  "Father  Clare  says  he  was 
a  great  loss  to  the  Church." 

Dominic's  face  fell,  and  he  asked  solemnly:  "What  do 
you  suppose  Father  Clare  meant  by  that  ?" 

Adam's  tone  fell  into  harmony :  "I  thought  it  meant  that 
everyone  here  must  have  thought  a  lot  of  him." 

"Oh,"  said  Dominic  reflectively,  "was  he  here  as  school, 
or  what  was  he  here  for  ?" 

"He  was  here  at  school,"  Adam  said;  "when  he  was  my 
age  he  was  here  at  school." 

"And  how  long  did  he  remain  here  ?"  Dominic  asked. 

"I've  no  notion,"  Adam  confessed,  adding  apologetically : 
"I  really  don't  know  much  about  him.  .  .  .  You  see,  he  only 
became  my  guardian  a  few  months  ago,  and  I'd  never  heard 
of  him  before  that." 

"You'd  never  heard  of  him  before  that?"  Dominic  re- 
peated; "then,  I  suppose,  you  hardly  know  whether  he  ful- 
fils his  religious  duties  or  not?" 

Adam  was  up  in  arms  at  once  in  Mr.  Macarthy's  defense. 
"Oh,  rather!"  he  cried;  "he  goes  to  long  mass  every 
Sunday." 

Dominic  was  unconvinced:  "There's  many  go  to  mass 
that  are  not  good  Catholics,"  he  declared. 

Adam  was  pained  by  his  doubts.  "I  bet  you  anything 
you  like,  Mr.  Macarthy's  a  good  Catholic,"  said  he;  "what 
on  earth  makes  you  doubt  it?" 

From  sheer  good-nature,  Dominic  hesitated  about  reply- 
ing, but,  repeatedly  urged  by  Adam,  he  said  at  last:  "I 
should  have  thought,  from  what  you  tell  me,  Father  Clare 
said  that  Mr.  Macarthy  may  have  been  a  spoiled  priest." 


no  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

From  his  companion's  tone  Adam  scented  something 
vaguely  demonic.  "What  is  a  spoiled  priest?"  he  asked  in 
a  hushed  voice. 

But  Dominic  refused  further  to  be  drawn:  "If  you  don't 
know  already,  it's  not  for  me  to  tell  you,  nor  for  me  to  risk 
making  a  scandal  about  a  man  I  never  heard  of  before  in 
jny  life.  .  .  ." 

"But  you  might  tell  me  what  a  spoiled  priest  is?"  Adam 
urged. 

"I  will  not,"  Dominic  answered  firmly,  and  inquired,  to 
turn  the  conversation,  how  it  was  that  Adam  came  to  be  at 
second  breakfast. 

It  was  unconsciously  diplomatic  of  Dominic  to  lure 
Adam's  attention  from  the  interesting  subject  of  his  guardian 
to  the  most  interesting  of  all  subjects — himself.  He  readily 
informed  his  friend  even  of  the  smallest  detail  relative  to 
the  reasons  for  his  coming  to  second  breakfast.  Nothing 
was  too  sordid  or  too  trivial  to  be  overlooked  in  connection 
with  this  matter ;  he  pursued  it  so  far  as  to  throw  out  a  hint 
that  the  only  good  thing  he  knew  about  his  mother  was  that 
she  would  not  drink  tea  that  had  not  been  freshly  made.  It 
was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say  that  she  would  not  drink 
tea  at  all  if  she  could  get  porter,  but  he  refrained  from  this, 
as,  perhaps,  impugning  that  claim  to  gentility  on  his  part 
which  Mr.  O'Toole  had  exhorted  him  to  uphold  at  all  costs. 

His  heart  sank  as  he  read  in  Dominic  Cahill's  patient  eyes 
that  he  was  a  little  shocked  by  his  tone  in  speaking  of  his 
mother. 

"Some  mothers  are  better  than  others,  no  doubt,"  said 
Cahill,  "but  I  think  there  was  ne'er  a  mother  yet  that  didn't 
suffer  a  great  deal  for  her  children's  sake." 

"You  mean  .  .  ."  said  Adam. 

Dominic  reddened.  "You're  too  young  for  me  to  say  ex- 
actly what  I  mean,"  said  he;  "but  if  I  were  you,  Macfadden, 
if  I  couldn't  talk  about  my  mother  more  nicely  than  that  I 


ADAM  IS  ADVISED  in 

wouldn't  talk  about  her  at  all."  He  waited  for  his  words 
to  sink  in,  and  then  added :  "Anyhow,  I'm  not  going  to 
talk  with  you  about  her."  To  emphasize  his  words,  he 
turned  away,  and  addressed  himself  exclusively  to  the  few 
others  at  the  table. 

Tears  stole  down  Adam's  cheeks  as  he  finished  his  but- 
tered roll,  and  one  fell  into  his  tea-cup.  .  .  .  He  felt  very 
much  inclined  to  use  the  naughty  language  of  the  Dublin 
gutters  to  his  new  acquaintance.  .  .  .  But  his  longing  for 
the  sympathy  of  Dominic  Cahill  won  an  easy  victory  over 
his  momentary  irritation,  and  as  the  latter  rose  from  the 
table  Adam  jumped  up  and  followed  him  out.  Just  by  the 
refectory  door  he  caught  him,  and  when  it  had  closed  be- 
hind them  and  they  were  alone  in  the  reentering  angle  of 
the  corridor  he  said  to  him  plaintively :  "Won't  you  talk  to 
me  any  more  ?" 

Cahill's  dully  beautiful  eyes  looked  into  his.  "Of  course," 
he  said  slowly,  "I'll  talk  to  you  about  anything  that  is  not 
against  my  conscience." 

"Thanks,  old  man,"  said  Adam,  "thanks  awfully."  And 
so  began  their  friendship. 


CHAPTER  XV 
HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS 

HAPPY  as  Adam  was  at  Clongowes,  and  even,  compared  with 
his  last  months  at  Belvedere,  modestly  successful,  the 
Christmas  holidays  approached  none  too  quickly  for  him. 
The  very  joy  of  discussing  second  breakfast  with  placidly 
virtuous  Dominic  Cahill  paled  before  the  thought  of  sitting 
once  again  at  table  with  Mr.  Macarthy  or  even  Herr  Behre. 
While  at  Belvedere  Adam  had  already  savored  the  delight 
of  possessing  a  home:  he  had  learnt  to  look  longingly 
through  the  window  at  the  honest  and  far  from  ugly  clock- 
face  of  St.  George's  Church;  for  it  was  jocund  to  reflect 
that  a  face  identical  with  that  which  envisaged  him  was 
looking  down  into  the  window  of  the  little  room  which  held 
the  works  of  Mr.  Keats  and  the  bull's  eye  lantern  which 
added  so  greatly  to  the  luxury  of  reading  them.  .  .  .  He 
had  brought  that  dumpy  book  containing  Keats  to  Clon- 
gowes with  him,  but,  in  the  absence  of  the  bull's  eye  lantern, 
they  failed  to  command  his  attention.  The  presence  of  the 
volume,  however,  in  his  desk  did  not  escape  the  attention  of 
the  study  prefect,  and  he  was  summoned  before  the  rector 
to  explain  his  harboring  it.  There  was  a  further  charge  of 
concealing  in  the  same  desk  a  complete  and  unexpurgated 
edition  of  the  works  of  Shakespeare  which  Adam  had  bor- 
rowed from  Herr  Behre,  with  the,  as  we  have  said,  unful- 
filled intention  of  mastering  them. 

Crowded  recollections  of  foolish  punishments  for  supposi- 
titious offenses  at  Belvedere  lent  Adam's  walk  some  trepida- 
tion as  he  made  his  way  to  the  rector's  room  in  the  old 
building:  it  is  a  cheerless  thing  to  pace  long  corridors  and 

112 


HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS  113 

climb  high  stairs  to  judgment,  and  all  the  more  if  your 
earliest  experience  has  been  of  the  cruel  fatuity  of  your 
elders.  And  so  far  Father  Rector  was  little  more  than  a 
name,  a  cloudy  name  of  majesty  to  Adam.  Adam  had  heard 
that  he  was  a  good  man :  he  had  heard  that  he  was  not :  he 
had  no  idea  what  to  expect  from  him.  It  was  a  relief  to 
find  him  entirely  charming,  most  reasonable,  actually  flatter- 
ing. .  .  .  "For,"  said  Father  Rector,  "it  is  unusual  for  a 
boy  of  your  age  to  have  such  books  as  these  in  his  desk,  but, 
it  is  unusual  for  a  boy  of  your  age  to  take  a  serious  interest 
in  literature.  ...  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  other  boy  of  your 
age  in  the  school  who  is  equally  interested  in  the  master- 
pieces of  the  English  language."  He  looked  closely  at 
Adam :  "I  take  it  that  you  really  keep  these  books  to  read 
and  not  in  order  that  you  may  point  out  certain  loose  and 
reprehensible  passages  to  other  boys  ?" 

Adam  truthfully  assured  him  that  such  an  idea  had  never 
entered  his  head,  and  Father  Rector  went  on  urbanely :  "Of 
course  not;  I  should  never  dream  of  accusing  you  of  such 
a  thing  .  .  .  though  it  has  been  done,  it  has  been  done,  to 
my  knowledge  it  has  been  done ;  even,"  he  sighed,  "even  with 
the  text  set  down  for  our  special  study  by  the  Government." 
He  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  Falstaffian  volume  of  Shakespeare 
and  the  dwarfed  Keats  which  lay  on  the  desk  in  front  of 
him.  "I  am  convinced,"  he  said,  "that  you  would  never  use 
either  of  these  volumes  for  an  immoral  purpose  .  .  .  but  I 
am  less  sure  of  others ;  to  show  my  confidence  in  you,  I  am 
content  to  give  them  back  to  you,  on  condition  that  you 
never  allow  them  to  pass  out  of  your  own  hands  so  long  as 
you  remain  at  Clongowes." 

Adam  eagerly  gave  his  undertaking,  and  Father  Rector 
handed  him  the  volumes ;  then  he  turned  to  another  publica- 
tion lying  in  front  of  him,  which  Adam  recognized  as  an 
odd  number  of  the  Boy's  Own  Paper  which  he  had 
bought  for  the  sake  of  a  colored  picture  of  birds'  eggs.  .  .  . 


ii4  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

It  had  been  an  ambition  of  Adam's  once  to  go  and  find  a 
bird's  egg  somewhere,  sometime;  so  far  this  had  not  been 
carried  out,  but  you  never  knew  when  this  picture  might  be 
useful,  if  a  bird  happened  to  lay  an  egg  somewhere  handy. 
As  the  good  priest's  eyes  descended  on  it,  his  expresion  be- 
came extremely  grave,  and  he  turned  the  pages,  making  dis- 
tressful sounds  the  while.  "Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "those 
two  books  you  may  keep,  but  this,  I  fear,  I  must  burn." 
Possibly  noticing  the  bubbling  question  on  Adam's  lips,  he 
added:  "A  boy  of  your  intelligence,  so  well  read  in  many 
respects,  ought  to  have  known  that  the  whole  tenor  of  this 
production  is  contrary  to  faith  ...  it  must  burn."  Then 
he  held  out  his  hand  and  opened  the  door :  "I  absolve  you 
from  all  evil  intentions ;  keep  your  Shakespeare  .  .  .  keep 
your  Keats  .  .  .  but,  remember,  it  is  most  important  of  all 
to  keep  the  faith.  Mind  the  step.  Good-day."  .  .  .  And 
that  was  that. 

From  this  ordeal  Adam  returned  with  the  proud  heart  of 
a  conqueror,  and  little  boys  who  had  seen  him  depart,  and 
believing  him  to  be  going  to  some  form  or  other  of  chastise- 
ment, had  whispered  to  him  sympathy  of  a  back-stiffening 
nature,  were  disgruntled  (though  they  might  not  admit  it) 
to  see  him  return,  as  it  were,  transfigured  and  glorified.  .  .  . 
For  was  he  not  the  only  boy  in  the  Third  Line  permitted  to 
keep  an  unexpurgated  Shakespeare,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
more  recondite  works  of  Mr.  Keats,  in  his  desk?  .  .  .  Not, 
indeed,  that  any  other  boy  in  the  Third  Line  had  the  smallest 
desire  to  possess  either  of  these  volumes,  though  there  were, 
perhaps,  some  had  been  tempted  by  an  offer  of  a  volume 
containing  only  those  parts  of  Shakespeare  which  Mr. 
Bowdler  had  cut  from  the  poet's  corpus,  and  to  discover 
which  for  oneself  was  a  labor  too  tedious. 

No  incidents  of  interest  comparative  with  this  arose  dur- 
ing that  first  term  at  Clongowes:  if  he  knew  no  greater 
triumph  than  his  return  from  the  rector's  room,  neither  did 


HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS  115 

he  experience  any  trepidation  comparable  with  that  of  going 
thither.  That  first  term  at  Clongowes,  save  for  its  begin- 
ning and  its  ending,  made  a  gray,  pleasantly  gray,  patch  in 
the  lively  pattern  of  Adam's  life,  but  the  Breaking-up  day 
was  vivid  enough.  The  rising  with  the  other  boys  by  arti- 
ficial light  (no  second  breakfast  to-day,  thank  you),  the 
gleam  of  hoar  frost  on  tree  and  road-way,  suggesting  to 
picturesque  and  romantic  young  minds  that  the  highways 
could  not  be  traversed  by  horses  at  all,  nor  eke  foot  pas- 
sengers unless  provided  with  alpen  stocks,  were  rich  with 
the  essence  of  romance,  though  Adam,  with  all  the  town 
boy's  credulity  as  to  the  phenomena  of  nature  to  be  ob- 
served in  the  barbarous  regions  beyond  the  tram-lines,  was 
seriously  perturbed  by  the  thought  of  impassable  roads,  and 
maybe  snow-bound  trains,  impeding  his  return  to  within 
sound  of  St.  George's  bells.  It  was  a  weight  off  his  mind 
when  the  grinding  of  wheels  and  cracking  of  whips,  sharp 
as  pistol  firing,  in  the  frosty  air,  announced  the  arrival  of 
the  first  cars  at  the  portal  of  the  old  house,  and  presently 
to  find  himself  seated  on  one,  beside  no  less  a  person  than 
Father  Bernard  James,  drawn  by  a  horse  at  something  like 
a  gallop  in  the  direction  of  Sallins  railway  station.  What 
a  fine  thing  it  was  to  be  alive  that  morning!  Even  Father 
Bernard  himself  forgot  to  be  anything  but  just  jolly,  as  if 
no  such  terrific  and,  on  the  whole,  rather  annoying,  thing 
as  religion  had  ever  entered  his  mind. 

And  then  there  was  the  train,  which,  to  Adam,  was  like 
being  home  already;  for  he  really  considered  his  life  to 
have  begun  on  the  day  when  he  and  Caroline  Brady  made 
themselves  so  very  much  at  home  in  one,  in  the  mystical 
darkness  of  Dalky  tunnel.  Adam  had  already  noted  that 
there  was  no  tunnel  to  speak  of  between  Kingsbridge  and 
Sallins :  this  he  regretted,  as  indicating  the  unfinished  con- 
dition of  the  otherwise  commendable  railway  line  connect- 
ing these  geographical  expressions. 


u6  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

The  day  was  yet  young  when  he  reached  Kingsbridge 
.  .  .  and  there — oh,  joy !  was  Herr  Behre,  with  outstretched 
arms,  awaiting  him. 

Adam  had  many  faults  of  vanity,  but  not  that  priggish 
form  which  forbade  him  to  accept,  in  the  spirit  they  were 
offered,  of  Herr  Behre's  hugs  and  kisses.  .  .  .  Nor  was  he 
so  callous  as  to  fail  that  moment  to  remember  that  the  only 
other  occasion  on  which  the  musician  had  kissed  him  was 
the  day  that  Father  Innocent  had  died.  He  was  thinking 
this,  and  of  how,  perhaps,  he  owed  to  Father  Innocent  him- 
self, now  Saint  Innocent,  maybe  helping  God's  Mother  to 
hang  the  walls  of  heaven  with  holly  and  ivy  for  Christmas, 
or  to  pack  up  toys  for  St.  Nicholas  to  drop  down  chimneys, 
this  same  Father  Innocent  who  had  remembered  him  in  his 
dying  hour  and,  likely,  the  last  prayer  he  said,  the  happiness 
of  the  friendship  of  Herr  Behre,  and  of  Mr.  Macarthy,  and 
of  all  the  good  people  who  had  been  kind  to  him  since  the 
first  and  kindest  of  them  all  was  dead. 

And  then  there  he  was  on  another  car,  sitting  with  Herr 
Behre  on  one  side  and  the  carman,  heavier  than  the  twain, 
on  the  other,  and  his  smart  gladstone  bag  between  them, 
holding  the  clothes  he  would  wear  at  Christmas  and  the 
now  historic  editions  of  Shakespeare  and  Keats.  To  the 
left,  over  Kingsbridge,  with  its  handsome  perspective  of  the 
Liffey,  from  the  fleet  of  Guinness's  barges  outside  the  brew- 
ery to  the  blue-domed  Custom  House  in  the  far  distance, 
and  the  proudly  ported  Four  Courts  holding  a  somewhat 
lop-sided  balance  between  the  two.  .  .  .  Then  the  car 
plunged  into  some  fanciful  short  cut  unknown  to  Adam  and, 
he  suspected,  but  partially  known  to  their  driver,  past  a 
queer  old  church,  wherein,  Herr  Behre  told  him,  were  to  be 
seen  the  desiccated  remains  of  men  of  alleged  holiness  whose 
earthly  crowns  had  long  demised.  .  .  .  Adam's  lively  imag- 
ination, more  than  ever  active  on  this  joyful  day,  readily 
visualized  them  in  the  likeness  of  once  human  kippers.  .  .  . 


HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS  117 

He  accepted  the  view  put  forward  by  the  carman  that  this 
long  tenure  of  their  mundane  exterior  was  a  proof  of  their 
full  enjoyment  of  spiritual  beatitude,  but  he  preferred  to 
think  of  Father  Innocent  as  charitably  feeding  worms  at 
Glasnevin.  ...  It  was  a  little  gloomy  to  think  of  death  at 
all  on  your  way  home  for  the  holidays,  and  he  wished  the 
carman,  even  for  the  sake  of  getting  him  home  the  faster, 
had  not  chosen  the  road  he  did.  (For  Adam  had  an  ever- 
growing horror  of  anything  that  reminded  him  of  the  foul- 
ness in  which  he  had  been  born.)  But  when  they  emerged 
into  the  light  of  something  more  like  civilization,  where  the 
west  side  of  Rutland  Square,  here  called  Granby  Row,  joins 
with  that  thoroughfare  called  Great  Britain  (or  Parnell) 
Street,  Adam  soon  shook  off  all  gloomy  view  of  past  or 
future. 

It  occurred  to  him  now  for  the  first  time,  looking  across 
the  horse's  back  at  the  tall  red-brick  Georgian  houses,  with 
the  gray  of  Charlemont  House,  built  by  the  famous  noble- 
man of  that  name,  but  long  since  devoted  to  the  purposes 
of  registering  the  births  and  deaths  of  the  citizens  of  Ireland 
(though  Mr.  Macfadden  had  been  too  patriotic  to  recognize 
its  existence),  that  Rutland  Square  was  good  to  look  upon, 
and,  passing  up  Gardiner's  Row,  he  perceived  that  the 
glimpse  of  Mountjoy  Square,  closing  the  perspective,  had  a 
pleasantness  not  merely  sentimental.  He  would  have  liked 
to  go  straight  to  it,  but  the  address  given  to  the  carman  was 
St.  George's  Place,  and  so  past  Belvedere,  of  which  Adam 
felt  scornful  now  as  a  mere  day-school,  he  turned  his  horse 
to  the  left  up  Temple  Street,  and  St.  George's  bells  were 
ringing  ten  as  Adam  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  faithful 
Attracta.  .  .  .  "Jesus>  Mary,  and  Joseph,  you  have  grown !" 
said  she,  as  though  it  would  have  been  more  reasonable  for 
him,  being  deprived  of  the  care  and  consideration  of  herself 
and  her  mistress,  to  have  diminished. 

And  there  was  St.  Kevin  to  be  greeted.  .  .  .  Adam  was 


u8  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

quite  a  long  time  trying  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  St. 
Kevin  knew  him  or  not.  At  first  he  thought  he  did ;  for  he 
came  forward,  as  Adam  thought,  to  greet  him,  but  it  proved 
to  be  his  intention  to  describe  geometrical  figures  in  and 
about  Herr  Behre's  ankles.  .  .  .  But  if  St.  Kevin  did  not 
recognize  him  as  an  old  friend,  he  was  quite  content,  on  the 
strength  of  his  intimacy  with  Attracta  and  Herr  Behre,  to 
accept  him  as  one  who  had  moved  in  proper  society.  He 
was  even  content  to  leave  Herr  Behre  and  Attracta  herself 
to  follow  Adam  when  Attracta  had  given  him  the  parcel  con- 
taining his  bull's-eye  lantern.  It  is  conceivable,  though  Adam 
did  not  think  of  it  at  the  time,  that  he  was  misled  by  the 
odoriferous  nature  of  the  contents  of  this  parcel  into  the 
simple  faith  that  Adam  had  brought  him  an  uncommonly 
succulent  Christmas  dish. 

Adam's  first  act  of  proprietorship  in  his  regained  terri- 
tory was  to  fill  the  bull's-eye  lantern  and  to  trim  the  wick. 
That  done,  he  placed  it,  with  a  box  of  matches  and  his 
stunted  Keats,  in  a  nameless  receptacle  unlikely  to  be 
searched  by  his  austere  landlady  and  yet  to  be  reached  with- 
out leaving  his  bed,  and,  much  gratified  by  his  ingenuity, 
proceeded  with  Herr  Behre  to  Mount  joy  Square. 

It  was  gratifying  also  to  his  physical  vanity  to  find,  as 
they  made  their  way  through  Temple  Street  and  along  Gar- 
diner's Place,  that  he  had  no  longer  to  move  at  a  sort  of 
canter  in  order  to  keep  up  with  Herr  Behre's  strides :  two 
paces  to  the  musician's  one  kept  them  fairly  level  and  caused 
him  no  fatigue ;  also  he  had  not  to  crane  his  neck  quite  so 
much  to  make  his  conversation  audible.  .  .  .  He  had  a  faint 
hope  that  Attracta  was,  after  all,  right  in  allocating  his  re- 
cent growth  to  the  category  of  observed  phenomena.  And 
this  was  strengthened  by  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde,  who,  over- 
taking them  in  Gardiner's  Place,  and  receiving  Adam's  salute 
as  he  passed  by,  jumped  off  his  bicycle  to  turn  back  and  say, 


HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS  119 

with  the  thunderbolt  of  a  clap  upon  his  shoulder:  "What? 
Adam  Macf adden  ?  Why,  I  hardly  knew  you !"  It  is  true 
that  he  did  not  specify  the  causes  which  made  Adam  difficult 
for  him  to  recognize,  but  Adam  was  content  to  believe  that 
he  had  grown  out  of  all  recognition. 

And,  withal,  the  joy  of  his  home-coming  was  dashed  with 
a  sub-acid  flavor.  .  .  .  He  knew  now  what  had  troubled  him 
from  the  moment  he  had  reached  Kingsbridge,  or,  at  all 
events,  had  climbed  on  the  car  to  leave  Kingsbridge  station, 
until  he  found  himself  now  on  the  north  side  of  Mountjoy 
Square,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  that  door  which  had  been 
opened  to  him  for  the  first  time  just  nine  months  before. 
.  .  .  Nine  months :  what  was  the  idea  associated  with  the 
term  of  nine  months?  .  .  .  He  gave  it  up.  .  .  .  But,  any- 
how, he  knew  why  he  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  his 
reception  in  Dublin.  He  had  been  jubilant  to  see  Herr 
Behre  waiting  for  him,  but  his  face  had  fallen,  as  the  heart 
within  him,  when  he  realized  that  Herr  Behre  was  come 
alone  to  meet  him.  ...  It  was  not  Herr  Behre  who  saw 
him  off,  nor,  after  all,  was  Herr  Behre  his  guardian.  It  is 
true  that  he  would  not  have  been  pleased  to  find  Herr  Behre 
in  the  company  of  that  one  of  his  guardians  whom  his 
mother  had  appointed  :  his  esteemed  godfather,  Mr.  O'Toole. 
Even  he  had  been  but  moderately  pleased  to  find  Herr  Behre 
had  for  a  companion  Mr.  O'Meagher.  .  .  .  He  could  not 
say  why,  but  Mr.  O'Meagher  seemed  fading  out  of  the  pic- 
tures which  he  loved  best  to  conjure  up  when  dropping  off 
to  sleep :  so  far  as  he  existed  at  all  as  a  memorable  figure, 
it  was  only  by  reason  of  his  claim  to  be  Josephine's  father, 
and,  oddly  enough,  it  required  an  effort  of  will  to  visualize 
him  in  that  relationship.  .  .  .  Adam  thought  he  was  fonder 
of  Josephine's  father  than  of  her  mother,  but  he  could  see 
her  mother  in  Josephine :  he  could  not  see  her  father  in  her 
even  when  that  kindly  man  almost  pathetically  desired  him 


120  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

to  do  so.  ...  He  did  not  think  Josephine  was  like  her 
mother,  but  for  sure,  whether  it  pleased  him  or  not,  she  was 
her  mother's  child. 

His  quick  brain  rehearsed  all  this  between  Gardiner's 
Place  and  their  destination,  and  all  thought  ended  with  the 
conviction  that,  glad  as  he  was  to  see  Herr  Behre  waiting 
for  him  at  Kingsbridge,  and  grateful  to  him  as  he  was  for 
coming  to  meet  him,  he  would  have  been  better  pleased  to 
see  Mr.  Macarthy,  and  felt  within  him  the  rising  resentment 
of  a  jealous  boy  that  Mr.  Macarthy  had  not  troubled  to  do 
so.  ...  His  spirits  sank  lower  and  lower  as  they  approached 
the  door,  but  his  smoldering  resentment  began  to  throw 
out  flame. 

"I  suppose,"  he  snorted,  "Mr.  Macarthy  was  too  busy  to 
think  of  meeting  me?" 

"Ach !"  cried  Herr  Behre,  absent-mindedly  lifting  him  up 
the  steps  with  his  long  arm;  "there,  there,  did  I  not  tell 
you?  .  .  .  He  is  not  too  busy  to  meet  you,  of  course  not. 
.  .  .  Did  I  not  tell  you— he  is  ill." 

Adam's  spirits  collapsed  so  utterly  that  he  seemed  to  feel 
them  coldly  lying  equally  divided  between  his  boots.  Simul- 
taneously the  flame  of  his  resentment  guttered  ignominiously 
out.  ...  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  smothered  by  some- 
thing that  had  got  him  by  the  throat. 

It  was  in  his  nature  to  try  to  say  something,  but  it  ended 
in  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
MR.  MACARTHY  LIES  IN  BED 

A  LADY  of  no  great  age,  dressed  in  a  becoming  costume, 
which  Adam  associated  with  the  non-religious  staff  of  a 
hospital,  admitted  them  to  Mr.  Macarthy's  sitting-room, 
where  Adam  was  too  awed  by  the  thought  of  his  guardian 
lying,  perhaps,  helpless  behind  the  folding-doors,  to  feel  him- 
self at  once  at  home.  They  were  asked  to  wait  a  moment, 
so  they  sat  down  while  the  nurse  answered  Mr.  Behre's 
questions  as  to  her  patient's  condition.  Adam  was  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  his  guardian  was  a  delicate  man,  re- 
lieved to  know  that  any  danger  there  had  been  seemed 
passed.  The  trouble  had  been  with  his  lungs :  the  details 
concerning  it  were  discussed  in  terms  he  could  not  follow 
.  .  .  anyhow,  the  long  and  short  of  it  was,  his  guardian  was 
well  enough  to  see  visitors — he  had  seen  some  already  that 
day.  .  .  .  The  flutter  of  skirts  and  a  cheerful  good-by, 
spoken  in  a  voice  Adam  seemed  to  know  but  could  not  name, 
told  that  one,  or  perhaps  more,  departed  now. 

The  nurse  left  them,  returning  in  a  moment  to  admit  them 
to  the  sick-room.  Adam  entered  it  with  curiosity  under- 
lying his  very  real  anxiety:  he  wanted  to  see  not  only  his 
guardian  but  his  guardian's  bedroom.  Before  giving  him 
the  hip-bath,  Mr.  Macarthy  had  taught  him  the  more  ad- 
vanced stages,  still  unknown  to  him,  of  the  gentle  art  of 
self-cleansing  in  his  own  bath-room  at  Mountjoy  Square: 
quite  a  luxurious  tiled  apartment  it  was,  with  a  geyser  and 
other  thermal  furniture :  Adam  believed  that  it  was  the  only 
room  in  the  suite  that  had  no  book  in  it,  being  consecrated 
solely  to  Hygeia.  He  knew  there  were  many  books  in  his 
guardian's  bedroom  from  the  glimpses  he  had  caught  of  it, 

121 


122  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

but  these  glimpses  were  few  and  far  between ;  for  the  owner 
was  always  up  and  about  betimes,  and  Adam  had  no  excuse 
to  gratify  his  curiosity  by  passing  the  threshold  until  now. 
.  .  .  But  there,  at  last,  lay  the  man  he  thought  so  strong, 
lying  in  bed  like  an  elderly  child,  and  waited  on  by  a  young 
woman  not  so  very  unlike  Sister  who  had  nursed  Adam's 
own  little  self  at  the  Mater  Misericordiae  Hospital.  A  sud- 
den impulse,  that  momentarily  drove  even  curiosity  from  his 
mind,  almost  as  though  it  were  a  shameful  thing,  flung  him 
on  his  knees  by  his  guardian's  bed.  "I  hope  you're  better, 
sir!"  he  cried. 

"All  the  better  for  seeing  you,"  Mr.  Macarthy  cheerily 
answered,  and  Adam  felt  there  was  still  strength  in  the  arm 
that  pressed  him  to  rise  until  he  rested  on  the  bed. 

Adam  found  himself  playing  "Little  pigs  went  to  market" 
(taught  him  in  infancy  by  Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson)  with  his 
guardian's  hand  while  he  asked:  "Why  didn't  you  send 
forme?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  laughed  softly,  a  very  kind  laugh,  Adam 
thought.  "And  what  would  they  have  said  at  Clongowes  if 
I'd  sent  for  you  ?"  he  inquired ;  to  which  Adam's  reply  was 
a  somewhat  incoherent  defiance  of  anyone  at  Clongowes  who 
might  so  far  presume  as  to  say  anything.  He  was  only  con- 
scious of  Mr.  Macarthy  looking  fondly  in  his  eyes,  and  his 
own  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  the  sick  man  said:  "If  I  had 
been  really  ill  I  would  have  sent  for  you,  but  it  doesn't  do 
to  be  hysterical."  Then  his  tone  changed :  "Sit  down  over 
there  by  the  fire,  Adam,  and  tell  us  all  about  yourself.  Mr. 
Behre  will  be  as  curious  as  I  am  to  know  how  you  got  on  at 
Clongowes."  He  turned  to  the  German :  "You've  never 
been  to  Clongowes,  have  you?" 

"No,"  said  Herr  Behre  absent-mindedly,  "and  never  will." 

So  Adam  sitting  by  the  fire  told  them  of  such  things  at 
Clongowes  as  he  thought  would  redound  to  his  favor,  with 
just  a  little  coloring  of  the  ridiculous  here  and  there  that  he 


MR.  MACARTHY  LIES  IN  BED  123 

might  not  be  suspected  of  romancing.  It  was  impossible  to 
explain  to  Herr  Behre  why  Father  Rector  had  burnt  the 
Boy's  Own  Paper:  "You  will  not  tell  me  that  it  is  on  the 
Index  Expurgatorius  ?"  he  pleaded. 

Mr.  Macarthy  laughed.  "Not  in  what  somebody  called 
The  Great  Mother  Index  of  1608 — that  deals  with  Jerome 
Cardan  (whose  name  is  perpetuated  in  the  driving  shaft 
of  our  motors,  some  of  them)  and  other  big  birds  .  .  .  but 
the  B.O.P.  is  implicitly  on  the  index  all  the  same.  It's  funny 
but  logical;  for  the  paper  in  my  time  anyhow  was  frankly 
evangelical  and  seriously  analyzed  there  is  no  denying  that 
it  was  an  elaborate  and  seductive,  more  or  less  seductive, 
tract." 

"Bah !"  said  Herr  Behre,  "I  wish  all  you  religious  people 
would  burn  each  other's  books." 

"My  church,"  Mr.  Macarthy  submitted,  "does  its  best,  as 
Adam  has  found  to  his  cost." 

Herr  Behre  snorted :  "You  and  your  church !  Bah !" 
said  he.  "You  have  no  church  .  .  .  any  more  than  I." 

"Possibly  less,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "for  you  have  a  faith 
in  the  imminence  of  the  social  revolution,  to  say  nothing  of 
its  desirability,  that  I  have  not  so  far  felt  about  anything 
whatever." 

While  their  talk  went  to  and  fro  Adam  had  leisure  at 
last  to  give  his  curiosity  free  play  and  his  eyes  wandered 
at  large  round  the  room.  After  all,  it  contained  nothing 
extraordinary.  Mr.  Macarthy  lay  in  a  rather  large  bed 
from  which  he  could  look  out  on  Mountjoy  Square,  with  the 
wintry  sunlight  now  at  noon,  playing  among  the  babies  and 
their  perambulators  in  the  central  plot.  Adam  could  see 
the  seats  which  had  helped  or  promised  to  help  him  in  his 
efforts  to  learn  the  bicycle.  He  recalled,  too,  how  several 
times  he  had  walked  with  Mr.  Macarthy  round  that  central 
plot  after  mass  on  Sunday.  He  remembered  Mr.  Macarthy 
telling  him  that  it  was  two  hundred  and  twenty  yards  in 


ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

circumference;  so  eight  times  round  it  was  a  mile,  and 
across  its  center  was  rather  more  than  seventy  yards. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Mr.  Macarthy  used  to  run 
across  it,  and  eight  times  and  more  than  that  around  it,  too  ; 
but  that  belonged  to  a  remote  past,  since  when  much  water 
had  run  under  Butt  and  other  bridges.  And  Mr.  Macarthy 
had  seen  it  run  under  many  bridges;  for  he  had  not  spent 
his  whole  life  in  Mountjoy  Square.  Waterloo  Bridge,  Adam 
had  heard  him  speak  of,  and  the  old  bridge  at  Walton  that 
was  also  on  the  Thames,  and  Magdalen  Bridge  which  was  at 
Oxford,  and  the  Forth  Bridge  and  the  Brig  o'  Doon,  both 
in  Scotland,  and  many  foreign  bridges :  the  Pont  Neuf  and 
the  great  bridge  over  the  Hollandsch  Diep  and  the  pontoon 
bridge  linking  Ehrenbreitstein  with  Coblenz ;  and  bridges 
yet  farther  afield  in  Italy  and  Russia,  and  away  in  Asia 
itself,  and  home  again,  east  about  by  the  Brooklyn  Bridge, 
\vhich  Adam  had  heard  described  by  Father  Innocent  on 
the  authority  of  hearsay  and  a  picture  postcard  as  a  wonder 
reducing  the  Hanging  Gardens  of  Babylon  to  insignificance. 

His  guardian  must  have  had  an  extraordinary  life,  yet 
there  was  little  in  his  bedroom  to  show  it.  The  wall-paper 
where  it  was  visible  behind  the  books  and  pictures  was  a 
rich  deep  blue,  the  wooden  fittings  of  all  kinds  the  color 
of  dark  oak.  Over  the  fire-place  hung  a  large  carbon  print 
of  Holbein's  portrait  of  Erasmus :  beneath  it  was  a  very  old 
and,  Adam  thought,  unsightly  crucifix,  with  a  text  in  Greek 
lettering  which  Adam  could  read  but  could  not  understand : 

Aaw<5  6c  o  0aa<Arvf  iyiwijoe  rbv  So^owwra  £«  rrft  rov  Oi'piav 

and  beneath  that  a  framed  theater  program  which  he  was 
now  old  enough  to  perceive  to  be  incongruous.  It  informed 
the  world  that  on  a  date  undecipherable  from  where  he  sat, 
at  the  Grand  Theater,  London,  the  Lessee  of  which  was  Mr. 
Oswald  Onsin,  and  the  Manager  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin,  Mr. 
Oswald  Onsin  would  present  a  New  and  Original  Comedy, 
"What  Rot !"  by  Oswald  Onsin,  in  which,  what  fat  lettering 


MR.  MACARTHY  LIES  IN  BED  125 

suggested  must  be,  the  leading  part  of  Lord  Algy  Taplow 
would  be  impersonated  by  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin  in  scenery  de- 
signed by  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin  and  with  effects  invented  by 
Mr.  Oswald  Onsin :  the  whole  masterpiece  being  produced 
by  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin  and  played  to  music  selected  by  an 
amateur  of  no  less  distinction  than  that  gentleman  himself. 
The  display  of  this  document  in  the  place  of  honor  in  Mr. 
Macarthy's  bedroom  puzzled  Adam  not  a  little.  Later  on 
he  was  to  learn  that  it  puzzled  Mr.  Macarthy's  other  visitors, 
most  of  them,  as  much  or  more  than  him. 

Mr.  Burns  explained  its  presence  as  on  account  of  its  con- 
taining the  name  of  Miss  Belinda  Bellingham  (Mrs.  Oswald 
Onsin)  with  whom  in  the  young  days  of  her  beauty,  said  Mr. 
Burns,  Macarthy  had  been  in  love.  And  as  he  spoke  of  an 
occasion  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria,  that  reign  so  illus- 
trious by  reason  of  its  length,  when  he  had  helped  Mr. 
Macarthy  to  unharness  the  fair  Belinda's  chariot  outside 
the  Gaiety  Theater  and  draw  it  by  devious  ways  to  the  Shel- 
bourne  Hotel,  this  was  the  theory  generally  obtaining;  but 
Adam  found  it  too  thin  for  credence.  There  was  no  por- 
trait of  Miss  Belinda  Bellingham  about  the  place:  though 
there  were  portraits  of  other  ladies,  including  Mrs.  Burns, 
and  a  very  faded  photograph  of  the  Marchesa,  from  which 
perhaps  Adam  had  subconsciously  derived  the  basis  of  cer- 
tain dreams  of  her  .  .  .  besides,  if  Belinda  Bellingham  were 
the  wife  of  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin,  Adam  could  not  imagine  his 
guardian  indulging  in  a  passion  for  her,  damaging  to  him- 
self and  the  ninth  commandment.  Save  for  his  ready  laugh- 
ter, Mr.  Macarthy  seemed  to  him  rather  an  austere  sort  of 
man:  he  ate  little,  when  alone  drank  only  tea  or  coffee, 
seldom  smoked,  and  (so  far  as  Adam  knew)  never  went  to 
music-hall  or  picture  palace.  Sometimes  he  visited  the 
Abbey  Theater;  but  that  was  not  the  sort  of  place,  Adam 
imagined,  to  take  your  pleasure  in,  any  more  than  in  a  con- 
cTt  room  or  picture  gallery. 


126  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Adam  was  staring  at  the  Greek  inscription  beneath  the 
crucifix,  trying  lazily  to  construe  it,  but  baffled  by  the  ap- 
parent absence  of  substantive  other  than  proper  nouns  that 
were  only  vaguely  familiar,  when  Mr.  Behre  rose  to  go, 
and  he  found  himself  alone  with  his  guardian. 

"Come  over  here  by  the  bed  and  talk  to  me,"  said  Mr. 
Macarthy.  "I  expect  you  have  many  questions  that  you 
have  been  saving  up  to  puzzle  my  poor  brain  with." 

Adam  bashfully  dropped  his  eyes,  protesting  that  he  had 
been  a  foolish  fellow  to  ask  so  many  questions,  and  that  he 
meant  never  to  trouble  his  guardian  in  this  particular  again. 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy :  "it  is  only  by  questioning 
that  we  can  learn  anything — though,  mark  you,  there  are 
many  questions  the  answers  to  which  only  teach  us  the 
fatuity  of  asking  them  .  .  .  little  children,  for  example,  only 
learn  how  not  to  be  silly  by  being  silly.  Philosophers  will 
ask  questions  that  fools  would  deem  idiotic,"  he  added  with 
a  thoughtful  smile;  "they  very  often  are." 

"Are  they,  sir?"  said  Adam  inattentively;  for  his  mind 
was  already  wandering  to  a  little  book  lying  face  down- 
wards on  the  table  at  Mr.  Macarthy's  elbow.  He  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  take  it  up  and  examine  it.  It 
was  a  thin,  finely  printed  volume,  lettered  on  the  vellum 
binding,  Aftermath,  by  ...  he  was  thrilled  to  read  the 
name,  David  Byron-Quinn. 

Mr.  Macarthy's  eyes  followed  his  to  the  book,  and  it  may 
be  that  they  twinkled,  though  Adam  did  not  notice  it.  "You 
are  interested  in  that?"  he  queried. 

But  something  that  he  had  acquired  at  Clongowes  forbade 
Adam  to  admit  that  he  was:  "I  just  took  it  up,"  he  said 
half  apologetically. 

"Evidently,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "but  not  because  you 
were  interested,  eh?" 

"Not  particularly  interested,"  Adam  answered,  still  fenc- 
ing aimlessly. 


MR.  MACARTHY  LIES  IN  BED  127 

"Then  I  should  put  it  down  again,"  Mr.  Macarthy  sug- 
gested, and  Adam  obeyed,  but  not  before  he  had  read  on 
the  fly-leaf,  in  sloping  handwriting,  "Stephen,  from  D.P. 
June  24  1893." — The  date  of  the  month  had  a  line  through 
it,  and  in  another  hand  the  correction,  "23rd."  At  the  foot 
of  the  page  there  was,  in  the  sloping  writing:  "If  you  have 
the  patience  to  read  so  far  as  page  57,  you  may  understand 
me  better  than  you  do  now,"  and  below  that  there  were 
words  that  Adam  knew  to  be  German,  though  he  did  not 
know  enough  of  that  language  to  take  their  meaning  at  a 
glance;  he  thought  he  had  seen  them  somewhere  before 
.  .  .  perhaps  on  a  piece  of  music  in  Herr  Behre's  room : 

"Ein  Tag  im  Jahre  sind  die  Todten  frei." 

Their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  nurse  reenter- 
ing  with  a  large  tray,  on  which  Adam  was  rejoiced  to  see 
not  only  the  invalid's  luncheon  but  his  own.  Clearing  the 
bed-table  for  the  tray  to  be  set  upon  it,  he  carried  away 
the  book  of  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn's  poems,  together  with  a 
newspaper,  to  his  place  by  the  fire.  Eating  his  luncheon, 
the  simplicity  of  which  seemed  to  him  now  luxurious,  he 
forgot  about  literature  and  everything  else  except  the  joys 
of  filling  his  stomach.  But  after  luncheon,  when  his 
guardian  fell  into  a  long  silence,  which  Adam,  obeying  the 
nurse's  instruction,  did  not  break  lest  he  should  scare  away 
slumber,  he  took  up  first  the  newspaper,  which  was  on  the 
point  of  sending  him  to  sleep,  when  he  had  the  happy 
thought  of  taking  up  the  book. 

He  read  again  the  inscription  on  the  fly-leaf,  and  then 
turned  to  what  promised  to  be  a  picture :  as  frontispiece 
there  was  reproduced,  in  photogravure,  the  portrait  of  the 
author  he  had  seen  now  more  than  once  in  the  National 
Gallery:  and,  so  much  reduced,  it  looked  in  black  and  white 
far  more  effective  than  did  the  original  painting.  The  whole 


128  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

thing  seemed  more  alive :  the  man's  face  had  a  keenness 
which  had  somehow  been  brushed  away  by  Lady  Daphne 
Page's  sentimental  pencil :  in  it  the  dead  major,  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn,  resembled  less  the  living  Mr.  Byron  O'Toole : 
he  looked  a  man  not  easily  slain.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  he  had 
been  slain,  Adam  remembered,  by  some  wild  people  in 
Africa:  not  South  Africa,  where  Adam's  uncle  had  disap- 
peared, but  north  of  the  Equator,  in  the  Soudan,  not  so  far 
from  the  Blue  Nile.  .  .  .  What  was  the  name  of  the  place — 
he  ought  to  remember.  He  framed  his  mouth  to  cry  it  as 
he  had  once  cried  it  in  St.  Stephen's  Green,  years  and  years 
ago,  the  day  he  had  first  seen  the  Marchesa  della  Venasal- 
vatica,  who  had  been  Lady  Daphne  Page  .  .  .  the  name  of 
the  place  was  Kordofan. 

Adam  was  trying  to  recall  what  he  had  read  of  the  author 
of  Aftermath  in  the  National  Gallery  catalogue  and  what 
he  had  been  told  of  him  by  the  Marchesa  and  Air.  O'Meagher 
and  others,  and  to  piece  his  several  fragments  of  informa- 
tion together,  when  a  gentle  stir  in  the  bed  wakened  him 
to  the  knowledge  that  his  guardian's  eyes  were  fixed  on 
him.  "Well?"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "so  you  are  interested?" 

Adam  was  not  quite  sure  whether  to  feel  guilty  or  not, 
and  merely  said,  "I  thought  you  were  asleep." 

"And,  thinking  me  asleep,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "you  con- 
sidered it  your  duty  to  find  out  whether  these  poems  were 
fit  to  be  perused  by  an  invalid." 

Adam,  relieved  that  his  tone,  albeit  ironical,  held  no  re- 
proof, said  that  he  had  not  read  the  book:  he  confessed  he 
had  been  puzzling  over  the  dedicatory  inscription.  Mr. 
Macarthy  said  there  was  nothing  puzzling  in  that. 

"I  can't  understand  the  German  words,"  Adam  admitted. 

Mr.  Macarthy  assured  him  that  nothing  could  be  simpler. 
"Just  bear  in  mind  that  'Tod'  is  German  for  death,  and, 
consequently,  'die  Todten'  means  those  who  are  dead." 

Adam  turned  to  the  fly-leaf  again  and  attacked  the  prob- 


MR.  MACARTHY  LIES  IN  BED  129 

lem  with  spirit :  "Does  it  mean  that  sometimes  the  dead  are 
let  loose?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  feebly  clapped  his  hands:  "The  meaning 
could  not  be  more  graphically  expressed,  and  you  will  under- 
stand the  allusion  if  you  turn  to  the  page  mentioned  above. 
Is  it  76?" 

"No,"  said  Adam,  "it's  57." 

Mr.  Macarthy  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  as  though 
brushing  away  a  cobweb.  "57,  of  course,"  said  he,  and 
paused  a  moment  before  saying:  "Turn  to  it  and  let  me 
hear  you  read  it." 

And  then  Adam  found  himself  solemnly  piping  out  the 
lines  which  he  had  first  heard  thundered  by  Mr.  O'Meagher 
in  the  room  beyond  the  folding-doors. 

THE  DEAD  LOVER 

"When  that  I  was  alive  there  were  women  that  loved  me; 

When  that  I  was  alive  they  loved  only  me; 

And  that  I  could  do  no  wrong 

Was  the  burden  of  the  song 

Of  the  dear  good  women  that  loved  me. 

Now  that  1  am  dead,  those  good  women  that  loved  me 
Are  sought  by  other  lovers  happily,  O  happily ; 
And  in  my  narrow  bed  I  can  hear  as  I  lie  dead 
Little  feet  that  I  have  kissed  dance  lightly  over  me. 

Yet  though  in  my  grave  I  He,  I  laugh  deliciously 

At  the  foolish  living  lovers  that  are  dancing  over  me — 

For  the  Queens  of  all  their  toasts  are  the  cold  and  careless 

ghosts 
Of  the  women  that  have  loved  me  and  are  lying  dead  with 

me." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "do  you  still  admire  that 
poem  as  much  as  you  did  last  spring?" 


i3o  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Adam  blushed.  "It's  very  nice,"  said  he,  "but  I  don't 
know  that  I  rightly  understand  what  it  means."  He  looked 
at  his  interlocutor.  "Would  you  mind  telling  me?" 

"Heaven  forbid!"  declared  Mr.  Macarthy,  "that  I,  a  mere 
Irish  man  of  letters  from  the  high  and  windy  hills,  should 
presume  to  interpret  the  poetry  of  an  Anglo-Norman  baronet 
holding  a  commission  in  the  army  .  .  ." 

"But,  sir,"  Adam  interrupted,  "wasn't  he  a  kind  of  rela- 
tion of  yours?" 

Mr.  Macarthy's  eyes  traveled  from  Adam's  face  round 
the  room  until  it  appeared  to  rest  on  the  crucifix.  "A  kind 
of  relation,"  he  repeated.  "Well,  yes,  I  suppose  he  was, 
but  he  was  much  more  nearly  related  to  your  friend  Mrs. 
Burns,  so  you'd  better  ask  her." 

Adam  ignored  the  advice  in  his  excitement  over  the  infor- 
mation. "Mrs.  Burns?"  he  cried;  "and  what  sort  of  a  rela- 
tion was  he  to  her?" 

"Her  father,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  and  Adam  was  so  aston- 
ished that  he  forgot  to  ask  any  more  questions  on  that  day. 

He  was  profoundly  impressed — so  impressed  that  even 
that  night,  back  in  his  own  dear  bed,  which  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  feel  vibrate  again  with  the  boom  of  St.  George's  bells,  he 
found  himself,  though  he  faithfully  got  out  his  Keats  and 
lit  his  bull's  eye  lantern,  unable  to  concentrate  his  mind  on 
any  poetry  but  that  of  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn.  The  baronet 
was  more  than  ever  interesting  as  the  presumptive  grand- 
father of  Barbara,  who  to-night  leaped  before  his  vision  all 
green  and  gold  as  he  had  seen  her  from  the  doubtful  security 
of  the  moorland  pool.  He  determined  to  learn  off  all  the 
baronet's  poetry  by  heart ;  all  of  it  that  he  could  remember 
to-night  he  repeated  until  he  fell  asleep. 

"And  that  I  could  do  no  wrong 
Was  the  burden  of  the  song 
Of  the  dear  good  women  that  loved  me." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
MORE  OF  SIR  DAVID  BYRON-QUINN 

ADAM  dreamed  that  first  night  of  the  Christmas  holidays 
that  he  was  living  in  what,  for  a  boy  born  in  the  slums,  was 
pretty  good  society.  True,  he  was  no  longer  a  boy,  in  his 
dreams,  but  more  or  less  grown  up,  nineteen  or  twenty — an 
age  at  which  it  appeared  to  him  to  be  reasonable  to  marry 
and  settle  down.  There  he  was,  comfortably  housed  in  the 
rector's  room  at  Clongowes,  with  Barbara  Burns  as  his 
wife,  and  magnificent  portraits  of  her  romantic  and  titled 
grandfather  in  every  room  (visible  to  his  dream  eye,  as  was 
also  the  staircase  and  well-chosen  fragments  of  the  school 
building,  without  leaving  the  apartment  which  Father  Rector 
had  placed  as  his  disposal)  ;  and  worthy  of  her  grandfather 
Barbara  looked;  and  worthily  of  him  she  behaved;  for, 
while  always  her  green  and  golden  self,  she  was  also  at 
times  the  most  attractive  part  of  Josephine  O'Meagher,  and 
at  other  times  had  an  allure  which  he  had  thought  peculiar 
to  Caroline  Brady.  It  was  a  delicious  dream;  and  when 
he  woke  he  rubbed  his  eyes  a  long  time,  wondering  how  it 
could  all  have  happened  in  that  bare  apartment  where  his 
fancy  had  placed  it.  It  was  a  little  sad  to  think  that  such 
a  thing  could  never  really  happen.  .  .  .  Sadder  still  was  it 
to  reflect  that  there  was  no  woman  in  the  world  who  could 
combine  the  charms  of  Barbara  Burns  with  those  of  Joseph- 
ine O'Meagher  and  Caroline  Brady.  .  .  .  But,  when  all  was 
said  and  done,  the  joyous  fact  remained  that  the  grand- 
father of  Barbara  Burns  was  not  only  a  poet  but  a  baronet. 
.  .  .  He  would  ask  Mr.  Macarthy.  .  .  . 

The  recollection  that  Mr.  Macarthy  was  ill  momentarily 


132  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

drove  even  the  dreams  of  fair  ladies  and  fashionable  mar- 
riages from  his  mind,  and  he  leaped  out  of  bed,  though  it 
was  barely  daylight,  determined  to  be  early  at  Mount  joy 
Square.  ...  As  early  as  he  had  ever  been.  Remembering 
that  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn,  into  whose  family  he  was 
about  to  marry,  had  been  an  officer  in  the  army — and  some- 
body had  told  him  that  officers  in  the  army  always  have 
cold  baths — he  emptied  his  jug  into  the  hip-bath  and  spent 
some  seconds  in  it.  Drying  himself,  he  fell  into  doubt  as 
to  whether,  after  all,  even  Barbara  Burns  was  worth  taking 
a  cold  tub  in  winter  for  .  .  .  the  Barbara  Burns  of  his 
dream  had  been,  but  was  the  Barbara  Burns  of  reality?  .  .  . 
She  was  not  Josephine  O'Meagher  and  Caroline  Brady  too. 
Real  life  was  a  base  and  trivial  thing  compared  with  the 
life  you  lived  in  dreams.  He  was  arguing  with  himself  the 
possibility,  provided  you  had  not  to  work  for  your  living,  of 
passing  your  life  in  dreamland,  when  Miss  Gannon  in  per- 
son brought  him  his  breakfast. 

It  seemed  to  him  a  lovely  breakfast,  savory  eggs  and 
bacon  and  lovely  crisp  brown  bread  with  delicious  butter 
that  was  quite  fresh  and  yet  a  trifle  salt,  and  piping  hot  tea 
with  milk,  which,  if  it  looked  a  little  blue  and  measly,  was 
all  right  so  long  as  you  didn't  look  at  it,  and,  anyhow,  there 
were  heaps  of  rich  brown  golden  Demerara  sugar  to  drown 
the  taste  of  it.  Adam  was  so  pleased  with  his  breakfast 
that,  improving  on  his  usual  custom  when  alone,  he  said 
grace  after  it.  He  may  have  been  prompted  to  this  by  a 
feeling  of  slight  distention  in  his  stomach,  warning  him  to 
propitiate  the  gods. 

When  he  reached  Mountjoy  Square,  a  motor-car  was 
standing  before  the  door,  the  only  type  of  car  which  Adam 
knew  by  appearance,  that  faithful  beast  among  motor-cars, 
more  cursed  and  mishandled  and  generally  abused  than  any 
other  chariot  that  fought  in  the  Great  War,  the  one  that 
pushed  its  bonnet  furthest  of  all  into  the  thick  of  fighting, 


MORE  OF  SIR  DAVID  BYRON-QUINN        133 

going  ninety  times  in  a  hundred  where  none  other  durst  .  .  . 
a  cheap  and  unfashionable  car,  such  as  no  medical  practi- 
tioner would  use  unless  more  interested  in  his  patients  than 
in  his  prestige :  Adam  guessed  it  to  be  the  car  of  his 
guardian's  doctor.  It  was  a  sharp  wintry  day,  and  the 
doctor  had  left  the  throttled  engine  running;  Adam  stood 
a  moment  watching  it ;  he  delighted  in  machinery,  though 
his  life  had  not  thrown  him  in  the  way  of  understanding 
it;  he  asked  himself  why  it  was  that  the  thing  puffed  and 
vibrated  and  yet  made  no  attempt  to  move.  .  .  .  He  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  held  there  by  the  brakes.  .  .  . 
That  seemed  a  wasteful  way  of  doing  things,  and  he  sus- 
pected there  might  be  some  other  explanation. 

Then  his  mind  ran  on  something  Mr.  Macarthy  had  said 
about  motors ;  he  could  not  remember  what  it  was  or  why 
it  connected  itself  with  the  Index  Expurgatorius ;  he  knew 
what  that  was — a  list  of  books  the  Pope  forbade  all  Catho- 
lics to  read.  .  .  .  And  the  queer  thing  was  that  some  of 
these  books  were  written  by  Jesuits;  one  priest  he  remem- 
bered himself,  though  he  could  not  remember  his  name,  was 
on  the  Index.  If  you  read  his  books  you  might  be  damned. 
...  It  seemed  a  queer  thing  to  look  at  a  motor-car  and 
think  of  being  damned,  especially  of  being  damned  for 
reading  a  book  by  a  man  who  had  taught  you  that  you 
might  be  damned  for  reading  somebody  else's  book.  .  .  . 
There  seemed  to  be  something  nonsensical  in  it  somewhere ; 
but  to  be  damned  was  a  serious  thing:  he  wasn't  going  to 
run  any  risk  of  being  damned  by  reading  books  contrary 
to  faith.  ...  It  really  wasn't  good  enough,  especially  when 
there  seemed  a  fair  chance  of  marrying  the  granddaughter 
of  a  baronet  and  living  happily,  you  might  say,  more  or  less 
ever  after.  At  this  point  the  door  opened  and  the  doctor 
came  down  the  steps,  got  into  his  car,  and  drove  off.  Adam 
was  thrilled  to  observe  that  he  was  the  same  doctor  who 
had  attended  him  at  the  Mater  Hospital  years  ago  and  sent 


134  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

him  on  that  expedition  to  Bray  which  led  to  his  meeting 
with  Caroline  Brady.  Adam  took  it  for  granted  that  he 
would  be  recognized,  but  he  was  not.  The  doctor  only  said, 
rather  sharply:  "Well,  boy,  have  you  never  seen  a  motor 
before?"  and  gave  Adam  no  time  to  explain  the  profound 
thoughts  which  moved  him  while  contemplating  the  throb- 
bing chassis;  and  yet  he  thought  how  interested  the  doctor 
would  have  been,  and  Sister  too,  to  know  that  he  who  had 
come  to  them  in  such  a  deplorable  condition  was  now  con- 
templating matrimony  with  the  granddaughter  of  a  baronet. 
He  ascended  to  Mr.  Macarthy's  rooms,  and,  after  somewhat 
perfunctorily  reassuring  himself  as  to  the  condition  of  the 
patient,  seized  the  first  opportunity  to  say :  "By  the  way, 
sir,  about  that  baronet  .  .  ." 

"Eh,  what?"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  shortly.  "About  what 
baronet?" 

"About  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn,"  said  Adam :  "you  were 
telling  me  about  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn." 

"Oh,  damn  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn  !"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  : 
"what  does  it  matter  about  him?"  He  said  this  laughingly, 
but  abruptly  checked  himself.  "Don't  misunderstand  me, 
Adam:  I  don't  really  wish  poor  David  any  harm;  if  there's 
anything  in  conventional  religion,  I  feel  more  sorry  for  him 
than  anything  else.  What  did  you  want  to  ask  about  him  ?" 

Now  that  it  came  to  the  point,  Adam  had  difficulty  in 
sorting  out  the  questions  that  lay  at  the  back  of  his  mind, 
but  he  said  at  last:  "Is  Babs  really  his  granddaughter?" 

"Why  shouldn't  she  be?"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

Adam  suspected,  without  knowing  the  reason  for  his  sus- 
picion, that  this  question  was  partly  jocular.  In  schoolboy 
words,  he  advanced  the  proposition  that  the  burden  of  proof 
lay  with  the  person — that  is  to  say,  with  Mr.  Macarthy  him- 
self— who  propounded  for  his  belief  the  statement  that 
Barbara  Burns,  well-bred  little  lady  though  she  might  be, 


MORE  OF  SIR  DAVID  BYRON-QUINN         135 

was  the  granddaughter  of  so  eminent  a  person,  by  reason 
both  of  birth  and  attainment,  as  the  baronet  who  had  per- 
ished with  such  dramatic  completeness.  To  complete  his 
argument,  he  said,  "She  never  told  me  he  was  her  grand- 
father. .  .  .  Never  so  much  as  mentioned  his  name." 

It  was  disconcerting  of  Mr.  Macarthy  to  reply:  "Did  you 
mention  to  her  the  name  of  your  grandfather?" 

Adam  frankly  replied:  "No,  but  I  should  have  if  he'd 
been  a  baronet." 

Mr.  Macarthy  was  obviously  impressed  by  this.  ...  So 
much  so  that  his  head  disappeared  beneath  the  bed-clothes, 
and  there  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation.  But  at  length 
he  said :  "Would  you  have  mentioned  him  if  he  had  been  a 
poet?" 

"I  never  thought  of  his  being  a  poet,"  Adam  said,  and 
added,  reflectively:  "I  don't  think  my  father  would  have 
mentioned  it  if  he  had  been  a  poet." 

"You  forget,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy:  "Sir  David  was  not 
the  father  of  Mr.  Burns:  he  was  the  father  of  Barbara's 
mother." 

"I  don't  know  who  my  mother's  father  was,"  was  all 
Adam  replied  to  that;  then  he  colored  and  added  hastily: 
"I  know  he  was  a  Mr.  Smith,  but  I  never  saw  him."  His 
tone  became  quite  cheerful  as  he  appended  to  this  state- 
ment :  "I  often  heard  my  mother  say  that  she'd  married 
beneath  her." 

"She's  not  the  only  woman  to  claim  that  honor,"  Mr. 
Macarthy  observed  drily.  He  went  on,  with  a  smile :  "And 
they're  quite  right — every  woman  who  marries  at  all,  mar- 
ries beneath  her." 

"I  suppose  you  might  say  that  of  Mrs.  Burns?"  Adam 
suggested. 

"I  shouldn't,"  Mr.  Macarthy  murmured,  "but  I  dare  say 
she  might  say  it  herself." 


136  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Adam  was  unconscious  of  the  irony  in  his  elder's  tone; 
he  even  nodded  his  head  in  acquiescence  as  he  propounded : 
"Mrs.  Burns  is  an  elegant  lady." 

Mr.  Macarthy  was  content  to  reply:  "Her  husband  is 
entirely  of  your  opinion." 

"So  is  her  daughter  Babs,"  said  Adam. 

"Meaning?"  Mr.  Macarthy  queried. 

"I  mean,"  said  Adam,  "that  her  daughter  is  an  elegant 
lady,  too";  he  added  thoughtfully:  "and  younger." 

Mr.  Macarthy  agreed  that  she  was  younger,  but  expressed 
no  opinion  of  an  argumentative  nature ;  so  Adam  carried  on 
the  conversation  by  remarking :  "They  never  come  to  Mount- 
joy  Square." 

"Don't  they?"  Mr.  Macarthy  responded,  in  the  tone  of 
one  without  information  on  the  subject. 

"They  don't,"  Adam  assured  him.  "I  have  never  seen 
them,  I  should  remember  if  they  had.  .  .  .  I've  often  won- 
dered why  they  didn't." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  dreamily,  "perhaps  they 
are  too  elegant." 

Adam  took  this  to  mean  that  it  would  scarcely  become  a 
baronet's  daughter  and  granddaughter  to  visit  a  mere  com- 
moner residing  in  the  upper  half  of  a  house  in  a  square 
which  he  knew  now  to  be  no  longer  fashionable.  It  chilled 
a  little  the  ardor  of  his  hopes,  but  he  ventured  tentatively 
to  observe :  "I  think  Mrs.  Burns  likes  me." 

"Youth  goes  to  youth,"  Mr.  Macarthy  murmured. 

"She's  not  so  young  as  all  that,"  Adam  protested. 

Mr.  Macarthy 's  eyes  distinctively  twinkled  notwithstand- 
ing the  lethargy  of  his  tone:  "How  do  you  know?  .  .  . 
Have  you  invited  her  to  St.  George's  Place?" 

At  last  Adam  chuckled  a  little  bashfully.  "You're  making 
game  of  me." 

"Am  I?"  said  Mr.  Macarthy;  and  for  the  life  of  him 
Adam  could  not  decide  whether  he  was  or  was  not. 


MORE  OF  SIR  DAVID  BYRON-QUINN        137 

thought  really  fastened  in  his  mind  that  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  invite  Mrs.  Burns  to  his  little  room,  there  to  be  alone 
with  her  for  just  a  while.  .  .  .  He  was  not  quite  clear 
whether  he  wanted  to  see  her  about  her  daughter  or  just 
.  .  .  Then  visions  of  other  visitors  drifted  into  his  mind, 
and  the  thought  of  some  of  them  burnt  deeper  still.  But 
his  tongue  never  even  touched  their  names.  .  .  .  Unless  it 
was  Caroline  Brady.  Sitting  there  looking  at  Mr.  Macarthy 
across  his  bedstead,  he  could  visualize  his  own  little  room 
and  Caroline  Brady  in  an  enlarged  reproduction  of  what 
she  had  been  when  he  kissed  her  in  Dalkey  Tunnel,  there 
before  him.  .  .  .  With  an  effort  of  will  he  dismissed  her 
from  his  mind  that  he  might  work  back  to  the  subject  of 
the  baronet :  alive  or  dead,  poor  Caroline  did  not  belong  to 
that  galley. 

"About  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn,"  he  began,  and  was 
pained  to  hear  Mr.  Macarthy  groan.  He  apologized  for 
returning  to  the  subject. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "carry  on.  .  .  .  What 
do  you  want  to  know  now?" 

"I  thought  last  night  in  bed,"  said  Adam,  "that  I'd  like 
to  learn  all  his  poetry  off  by  heart." 

"The  dickens !"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

As  this  expletive  did  not  amount  to  a  command  to  stop, 
Adam  proceeded.  "Of  course,  I  know  he  wasn't  a  great 
poet;  not  like  Shakespeare  and  Byron  and  Scott  and,"  his 
tongue  went  on  mechanically,  "and  Keats  and  Yeats  .  .  ." 

"No,  nor  Moody  and  Sankey,"  Mr.  Macarthy  murmured ; 
but  the  point  of  this  observation,  if  point  it  had,  was  lost 
on  Adam. 

"I  should  think,  sir,"  he  suggested  very  cautiously,  "I 
should  think  you  would  be  right  in  saying  that  he  was  a 
better  poet  or  anyhow  very  near  as  good  as  Mr.  Tinkler." 

"As  Mr.  Tinkler?"  Mr.  Macarthy  repeated  with  a  ques- 
tioning glance.  "What  do  you  know  about  Mr.  Tinkler?" 


138  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Adam  informed  him  how  he  had  once  been  brought  to 
the  Muses  Club,  where  he  had  heard  Mr.  Tinkler  read  cer- 
tain of  his  verses. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  and  that  was  all  he  vouchsafed 
upon  the  subject  of  Mr.  Tinkler.  Of  Sir  David  he  said  that 
the  man  had  been  a  genuine  poet  in  intention,  but  not  often 
an  effective  one  in  reality.  "Byron-Quinn,"  said  he,  "was 
your  true  amateur  with  the  amateur's  qualities  and  defects. 
Being  a  man  of  talent  with  no  need  to  write  for  a  living, 
he  wrote  nothing,  so  far  as  we  know,  that  was  beneath  con- 
tempt: on  the  other  hand,  having  no  one  to  criticize  him, 
no  one  but  himself  to  please,  and  not  being  in  an  artistic 
sense  self -critical,  he  wrote  nothing  or  precious  little,  that 
will  satisfy  a  man  of  taste.  .  .  .  Don't  imagine  that  I  set 
up  to  be  a  man  of  taste,  but  even  I  feel  that  the  things  of 
his  which  impressed  me  twenty  years  ago  fail  to  impress 
me  now."  He  paused  and  passed  his  hand  thoughtfully 
across  his  forehead.  "It  may  be  that  I  shall  be  impressed 
by  them  again,  but  I  think  not." 

Adam,  glowing  with  the  satisfaction  that  his  guardian 
was  entering  into  a  serious  literary  discussion  with  him, 
said,  unconsciously  imitating  his  tone :  "I  was  quite  im- 
pressed when  Mr.  O'Meagher  recited  'The  Dead  Lover'  to 
us  last  spring." 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled,  but  answered  in  grave  tones,  "And 
you  were  impressed  when  you  read  it  for  yourself  here  yes- 
terday ?" 

"Not  so  much  impressed,"  said  Adam  guardedly,  "but, 
as  I  told  you  yesterday,  I'm  not  sure  that  I  know  what  it 
means.  Do  you  ?" 

"And  as  I  told  you  yesterday  I  don't  pretend  to  know 
what  it  means,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "but  I  take  it  to  have 
been,  possibly,  in  the  poet's  mind  that  while  men  have  the 
power  to  love  many  women,  women  have  the  power  to  love 
only  one  man." 


MORE  OF  SIR  DAVID  BYRON-QUINN        139 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  blushing  he  knew  not  why,  "Oh!  Do 
you  think  that,  too?" 

"For  my  part,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "I  conceive  that  the 
late  Major  Byron-Quinn  may  possibly  have  been  wrong." 
He  looked  at  Adam  quizzingly :  "Let  me  hear  what  you 
think  about  it  yourself." 

"I  think  that  he  must  have  been  a  very  conceited  sort  of 
fellow,"  Adam  promptly  responded. 

"That  one  may  presume  is  the  view  of  the  world,"  said 
Mr.  Macarthy,  "and  it  is  scarcely  for  me  to  say  it  is  not 
right — yet  I  happen  to  know  that  the  poet's  boast  is  true  of 
at  least  one  woman;  for  she  makes  no  secret  of  it." 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Adam. 

Said  Mr.  Macarthy :  "Never  mind." 

Ordinarily  Adam  would  have  taken  those  two  words  as 
a  definite  closing  of  the  audience,  but  he  sat  still  a  little 
while  sunk  in  thought  until  he  asked  at  last  in  a  hushed 
voice:  "Is  that  lady  dead?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  turned  over  on  his  side  and  put  his  hand 
over  his  eyes,  as  though  shutting  out  the  sunlight.  Adam 
thought  he  did  not  mean  to  answer  him,  but  at  last  the 
words  came  slowly :  "No,  she  is  not  exactly  dead :  but  so 
changed  out  of  all  recognition,  even  since  I  first  knew  her, 
that  if  she  were  to  meet  her  dead  lover  to-night,  he  would 
turn  away  from  her  in  disgust." 

Adam  felt  a  tremor  between  excitement  and  horror.  "It 
was  the  Marchesa,"  he  blurted. 

"Never  mind  who  it  was,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  sternly,  and 
Adam  rose  to  go,  feeling  this  to  be  definitely  a  dismissal; 
but  as  he  was  leaving  the  room  his  guardian  called  him  back 
to  say :  "I  was  unjust  to  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn :  he  would 
not  turn  away  from  any  woman  with  disgust.  .  .  .  Not  in 
any  circumstances  whatever.  He  had  his  faults,  but  he  was 
not  that  sort  of  man." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
OF  A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT 

CHRISTMAS  DAY  fell  on  a  Wednesday.  Adam,  paying  his 
third  visit  to  his  guardian  on  the  previous  Monday,  found 
him  up,  and  on  Tuesday  he  declared  himself  well  enough, 
though  the  doctor  appeared  of  a  contrary  opinion,  to  go  out. 
As  a  compromise  with  his  medical  adviser,  he  promised  to 
be  back  before  nightfall ;  but,  with  Adam  as  a  companion, 
Christmas  shopping  did  not  allow  him  to  keep  his  promise. 
Darkness  had  already  fallen  before  they  were  clear  of  Graf- 
ton  Street,  on  their  return  journey.  Working  their  way 
through  the  crowd  outside  Hollander's,  they  ran  into  the 
arms,  or  at  least  Adam  ran  into  the  arms,  of  the  Marchesa. 
Kissing  him  affectionately,  she  cried :  "Happy  Christmas ! 
I  heard  you  were  home  from  that  horrible  school.  How 
hateful  all  schools  are,  even  boys'  schools,  though  I  should 
prefer  them  to  my  own.  .  .  .  St.  Enda's  is  all  right" — she 
turned  to  Mr.  Macarthy :  "Why  didn't  you  send  him  to  St. 
Enda's?" 

"For  too  many  reasons  to  tell  you  now,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy calmly. 

"Your  reasons  are  always  nonsensical,"  the  Marchesa  de- 
clared, "but  I  suppose  you're  right:  you  always  are." 

"Sometimes,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

"Don't  be  so  vain !"  cried  the  Marchesa.  She  appealed 
to  Adam,  pointing  her  finger  at  his  guardian:  "Isn't  he 
awfully  vain?  Don't  you  find  him  so?  Of  course  you  do." 

In  point  of  fact  Adam  sometimes  did,  but  he  was  glad, 
for  more  than  one  reason,  when  the  Marchesa  went  on,  with- 
out giving  him  time  to  answer  her  question :  "I've  often 

140 


OF  A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT  141 

thought  of  you  while  you  were  away ;  I  was  thinking  of  you 
this  very  day — in  fact,  I  was  thinking  of  you  just  now,  for 
I'd  been  buying  a  Christmas  present  for  you ;  I  hope  you'll 
find  it  when  you  get  home  .  .  .  What  are  you  looking  at  ?" 

Adam  did  not  quite  know  what  he  was  looking  at,  but  he 
knew  who  had  been  looking  at  him,  though  with  eyes  that 
held  no  recognition  .  .  .  Caroline  Brady,  dressed  like  a 
grown-up  little  lady,  in  the  height  of  fashion,  as  he  con- 
ceived the  height  of  fashion  to  be.  But  where  was  she? 
Where  had  he  seen  her  ?  He  dared  not  say ;  for  it  appeared 
to  him  that  he  had  seen  her  inside  the  glass  front  of  Hol- 
lander's window.  .  .  .  This  his  common  sense,  or  what  he 
called  his  common  sense,  told  him  must  have  been  a  delu- 
sion ;  for  Caroline  Brady  simply  could  not  have  been  inside 
Hollander's  window.  .  .  .  What  could  she  have  been  doing 
there  ?  Nothing.  His  vision  of  the  window  was  blocked  by 
the  crowd  around  it.  He  had  caught  only  a  fleeting  glimpse 
of  her.  .  .  .  The  crowd  opened  again  and  he  had  another 
such  glimpse  of  the  window,  but  there  was  no  Caroline 
Brady  to  be  seen.  His  mind  worked  back  to  the  more 
tangible  joy  of  the  Marchesa's  present.  He  tried  to  speak 
of  it,  but,  piqued  by  his  off-handed  manner  when  she  told 
him  of  it,  she  bade  him  and  his  guardian  good-by. 

Adam  almost  reproached  himself  with  allowing  his  atten- 
tion to  be  distracted  from  the  Marchesa  even  by  the  appear- 
ance, real  or  fanciful,  of  Caroline  Brady.  As  they  climbed 
on  a  tram  at  the  corner  of  Suffolk  Street,  he  recalled  that 
once  before,  on  his  very  birthday  it  was,  Caroline  Brady's 
ghost  had  come  between  him  and  the  Marchesa.  .  .  .  Worse 
than  that,  had  come  between  him  and  the  Marchesa  and 
Barbara  Burns  too.  ...  It  was  uncanny  to  think  that  Caro- 
line Brady's  ghost  should  have  the  power  to  do  this :  it  made 
it  seem  such  a  real  ghost,  animated  by  a  sort  of  deliberate, 
and  possibly  sinister,  intention.  As  the  tram  lumbered 
slowly  and  heavily  (being  a  Kingstown  tram,  and  almost 


142  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

too  ponderous  and  long  in  the  wheel  base  for  some  of  those 
curves  round  Trinity  College)  Adam,  innocent  little  boy 
though  he  looked,  even  to  the  not  unobservant  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy,  was  asking  himself  whether  the  ghost  of  Caroline 
Brady  could  possibly  be  inspired  by  jealousy  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  a  baronet's  granddaughter  and  a  baronet's  .  .  . 
He  was  not  quite  sure  of  the  correct  word  to  describe  the 
Marchesa's  relationship  to  the  author  of  "The  Dead  Lover." 
He  opened  his  lips  to  broach  the  question  to  Mr.  Macarthy, 
but  checked  himself  in  time,  remembering  that  this  branch 
of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  bore  forbidden  fruit.  So,  as  Mr. 
Macarthy  had  turned  his  ear,  expecting  him  to  say  some- 
thing, he  said:  "I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  present  the 
Marchesa  has  given  me." 

Not  very  promisingly,  Mr.  Macarthy  made  answer:  "So 
do  I." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  box  of  soldiers?"  Adam 
suggested. 

"More  likely  a  box  of  infant  druids,"  Mr.  Macarthy 
replied. 

Mildly  surprised,  Adam  said :  "I  didn't  know  you  could 
buy  that  sort  of  thing." 

"It's  wonderful  what  you  can  buy,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 
Adam's  full  interest  was  aroused.    "But  can  you  buy  in- 
fant druids?"  he  said. 

Mr.  Macarthy  only  answered :  "I  don't  think  I  could  ever 
bring  myself  to  try." 

But  the  idea  pleased  Adam,  and  he  would  not  readily  let 
go  of  it.  "What  do  you  think  infant  druids  would  be  like 
if  you  could  buy  them?"  he  insisted. 

"I  shouldn't  think  that  they  would  in  any  circumstances 
be  like  infant  druids,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said  gravely ;  and  this 
gave  Adam  food  for  thought,  which  kept  him  silent  until 
they  left  the  tram  at  Findlater's  Church.  Together  they 


OF  A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT  143 

walked  up  Gardiner's  Row  and  passed  Belvedere.  As  they 
were  approaching  it  Adam  fell  into  a  little  laugh,  a  laugh 
of  sheer  happiness  to  think  what  a  different  world  was  his 
since  a  year  ago;  then,  suddenly,  the  laughter  stilled,  and 
he  caught  at  Mr.  Macarthy's  arm. 

The  latter  looked  down  at  him  alarmed.  "What's  the 
matter?"  he  said. 

Adam  answered  nothing,  but  stood  stock  still  holding  his 
companion  to  him;  in  the  gloom  of  the  full  night  a  priestly 
form  emerged  from  nowhere,  ascended  the  steps  and  disap- 
peared again  through  the  doorway.  The  dull  bang  of  the 
heavy  door  released  Adam  from  what  seemed  to  his  com- 
panion almost  a  nervous  seizure,  and  the  two  stepped  out 
again.  Mr.  Macarthy  walked  with  him  as  far  as  St. 
George's  Place,  asking  no  question;  but,  as  he  bade  him 
good-night,  he  said:  "Happy  Christmas,  Adam.  Come  to 
me  as  early  as  you  can  to-morrow  and  have  no  bad  dreams 
to-night.  Christmas  should  be  a  joyful  time  for  children, 
and  after  all  you  are  a  child  still,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Adam,  "I  am.  Thank  you  .  .  ."  he  was 
going  to  say  "your  honor,"  but  checked  himself  half-con- 
sciously,  ending  the  phrase:  "Thanks  to  you,  sir,  and  God 
bless  you." 

Mr.  Macarthy  lingered  a  moment,  and  perhaps  it  was  the 
cold  air  made  him  cough,  then  turning  resolutely  to  go,  he 
said  in  a  low  clear  voice :  "One  thing  more,  Adam,  a  piece 
of  advice  from  an  old  man;  perhaps  more  than  most  boys 
of  your  age  you  have  suffered  at  the  hands  of  others,  cer- 
tainly you  have  suffered  badly  at  the  hands  of  a  man  we 
both  saw  just  now.  It  may  be,  and  I  am  willing  to  believe, 
that  you  have  fully  forgiven  him,  for  otherwise  you  could 
not  honestly  have  fulfilled  your  religious  duties  as  you  seem 
to  have  done ;  but  in  any  case  I  tell  you  this,  so  long  as  you 
feel  the  tiniest  resentment  towards  any  creature  on  God's 


144  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

earth,  man  or  beast,  you  will  never  know  any  real  happi- 
ness." Then  he  stooped  and  kissed  Adam  on  the  forehead. 
"Happy  Christmas!"  he  repeated,  and  strode  off. 

Tearfully  bewildered  Adam  ascended  to  his  own  little 
room,  vaguely  cheered  by  a  comparatively  luscious  smell 
from  the  kitchen  and  a  sort  of  peppering  of  holly  and  ivy 
in  and  about  the  mean  staircase :  it  was  encouraging  to  know 
that  even  Miss  Gannon  felt,  or  suffered  Attracta  to  feel,  the 
atmosphere  of  Christmas.  Always  susceptible  to  kindly 
suggestion,  he  had  a  momentary  idea  of  rushing  out  to  buy 
a  Christmas  card  with  a  motto  about  Christmas  being  the 
time  for  forgiveness  (if  such  a  rarity  might  be  obtained 
locally)  and  delivering  it  himself  at  Belvedere  addressed  to 
Father  Tudor,  with  the  legend  "From  You  Know  Who"  on 
the  back.  For  two  reasons  this  seemed  to  him  attractive : 
firstly,  it  would  please  Mr.  Macarthy,  and  secondly  it  would 
annoy  Father  Tudor.  .  .  .  But  this  he  reflected,  might  not 
be  true  forgiveness  of  the  kind  that  makes  you  properly 
happy.  ...  It  would  be  fun,  but  fun  was  not  strictly  speak- 
ing happiness.  .  .  .  "What's  fun  to  you,"  said  the  frog. 
...  At  this  point  he  entered  his  room  and  perceived  on  his 
table  that  which  drove  Father  Tudor  out  of  his  mind;  it 
was  the  Marchesa's  present.  He  felt  aggrieved  at  the  size 
of  the  parcel,  it  seemed  much  too  small  co  be  worthy  of  a 
lady  of  title.  Taking  from  his  pocket  a  penknife  of  varied 
accomplishments  (that  morning  arrived  from  Columba  and 
Patrick  O'Meagher)  he  cut  the  string.  .  .  .  The  Marchesa's 
present  was  a  book  ...  it  was  ...  he  rubbed  his  eyes, 
stared  at  it,  thought  there  was  some  mistake  about  it  until 
he  read  his  name  (spelt  Madfaden)  on  the  fly-leaf,  it  was 
Aftermath  by  David  Byron-Quinn. 

For  a  moment  he  threw  it  down,  not  feeling  in  the  mood 
for  poetry,  while  he  examined  his  other  presents,  the  con- 
ventional presents  of  boyhood,  things  for  the  cricket  and 
football  field,  surprisingly  many  of  them  for  a  boy  who  a 


OF  A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT  145 

year  ago  had  had  no  friends.  Last  year  there  had  been  but 
two  presents,  one  from  Father  Innocent  and  one  from  the 
O'Meaghers.  Even  Mr.  O'Toole  had  sent  him  a  present 
this  Christmas,  it  was  a  book  (how  pleased  Mr.  O'Toole 
would  have  been  to  know  that  his  present  took  the  same 
form  as  the  Marchesa's),  a  handsomely  bound  book  en- 
titled: The  Young  Gentleman's  Guide  to  Good  Society,  by 
an  authority  who  modestly  veiled  his  personality  under  the 
style  "A  Public  School  Master."  Adam  had  enough  sense 
to  perceive  at  once  that  this  book,  despite  the  attractive  bind- 
ing, had  better  be  concealed.  He  liked  it  none  the  better 
for  certain  shaky  but  extremely  legible  writing  within  it 
which  bore  witness  that  it  was  "A  Christmas  present  from 
Byron  O'Toole,  Esq.,  to  his  godson  Byron  O'Toole  Wynd- 
ham  Macfadden,  Esq." 

Adam  turned  his  back  on  all  his  presents  and  sat  down  by 
the  fire,  sat  there  very  moodily,  for  it  was  a  queer  thing 
that  even  through  the  medium  of  a  book  and  a  well-bound 
book;  a  book,  to  judge  by  the  number  of  editions  it  was 
advertised  to  have  gone  through,  more  successful  than  all 
but  a  very  few  literary  masterpieces,  his  godfather  had  flung 
a  sinister  shadow  into  that  little  room.  ...  It  was  bad 
enough  that  Father  Tudor  should  have  crossed  his  path  to- 
night :  luckily  Mr.  Macarthy  had  been  with  him  as  a  true 
guardian  to  make  light  of  the  fear  of  him  and  as  it  were 
exorcise  the  demonic  part  of  him.  Coming  upstairs  he  had 
quite  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  regard  Father  Tudor, 
not  as  the  tormenting  devil  who  still  haunted  his  dreams, 
but  just  as  a  sort  of  cruel  freak  to  be  pitied  (as  Mr.  Behre 
had  once  said)  and  so  far  as  Christian  piety  would  allow 
it,  despised.  .  .  .  But  when  Adam  received  any  token  what- 
ever to  remind  him  that  he  was  still  under  the  patronage  of 
Mr.  Byron  O'Toole,  he  felt  himself  not  in  a  position  to 
despise  anyone.  .  .  .  He  asked  himself  what  Barbara  Burns 
would  think  if  she  came  across  that  book  and  learnt  that 


i46  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Mr.  Byron  OToole  was  his  godfather  ...  his  godfather 
and  that  because  he  was  his  mother's  friend.  .  .  .  What 
would  she  think?  She,  the  granddaughter  of  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn?  .  .  .  And  what  would  the  Marchesa  think? 
.  .  .  What  would  she  think  of  the  relations  between  his 
mother  and  Mr.  O'Toole?  .  .  .  Odd  that  she  and  Mr. 
OToole  had  both  given  him  books.  .  .  .  What  a  world 
apart  the  two  were !  ...  If  they  ever  met,  and  perhaps  they 
had  met  in  the  past,  for  Mr.  O'Toole  had  boasted  of  the 
days  when  he  had  enjoyed  the  intimacy  of  Dublin  Castle, 
with  all  the  abandon  of  an  extra  waiter,  and  the  Marchesa, 
too,  he  knew  used  to  go  there  in  her  salad  days  when  she 
was  painting  the  portrait  of  David  Byron-Quinn.  .  .  . 
David  Byron-Quinn  whom  she  still  talked  of  as  a  living  in- 
fluence on  her  life  (as  he  would  have  talked,  if  he  dared,  of 
Josephine  O'Meagher  being  an  influence  on  his  own),  but 
who,  according  to  Mr.  Macarthy  would  not  know  her  if  he 
came  to  life  again.  .  .  .  That  was  a  terrible  thing  to  think 
of:  a  beautiful  woman  growing  old  without  dignity.  .  .  . 
No,  he  wronged  the  Marchesa,  she  was  not  without  dignity, 
but  it  was  a  crazy,  crumpled  sort  of  dignity,  like  so  many 
of  the  beautiful  old  houses  he  had  seen  crumbling  more  and 
more  into  a  feverish  decay :  he  almost  likened  the  erstwhile 
Lady  Daphne  Page  to  such  a  ruinous  tenement  house  as 
Mountjoy  Court,  where  his  godfather  had  once  lived  with 
Miss  or  Mrs.  Robinson  and  his  own  father  had  crashed  to 
his  death  through  the  rotten  staircase. 

He  wondered  why  the  Marchesa,  whose  life  was  such  a 
maddening  failure  to  think  upon,  never  appeared  to  him  to 
be  otherwise  than  cheerful  when  he  met  her :  to  think  of  her 
was  infinitely  sad,  but  to  meet  her  was,  on  the  whole,  rather 
exhilarating:  he  distinctly  liked  meeting  her:  he  did  not 
share  that  fear  which  Mr.  O'Meagher  and  others  confessed 
themselves  to  have  of  her.  .  .  .  He  did  not  like  her  as  much 
as  Mrs.  Burns,  for  the  simple  reason  that  Mrs.  Burns  was 


OF  A  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT  147 

overwhelmingly  brilliant  and  beautiful,  but,  on  the  whole, 
he  would  rather  talk  to  her  than  to  Mrs.  Burns.  He  could 
not  say  why,  but  he  liked  talking  to  the  Marchesa  .  .  .  per- 
haps that  was  because  she  was  so  ready  to  talk  about  Sir 
David  Byron-Quinn.  .  .  .  And  yet,  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn 
was  Mrs.  Burns's  own  father,  who  never  mentioned  him. 
He  asked  himself  why  Mrs.  Burns  never  mentioned  her 
father:  he  had  a  notion  that  Mrs.  Burns  was  the  sort  of 
lady  who  would  be  proud  to  have  a  poet  for  a  father.  .  .  . 
He  had  even  heard  her  say  that  she  was  proud  to  have  Mr. 
Tinkler  as  a  friend,  and  the  baronet's  poems,  he  felt  in- 
stinctively, could  knock  spots  off  Tinkler's. 

Taking  up  his  Christmas  present  from  the  Marchesa,  to 
confirm  his  opinion,  there  came  into  his  mind  his  conversa- 
tion with  his  guardian  on  the  subject  of  his  merits.  .  .  .  He 
remembered,  too,  that  when  his  guardian  wished  him  to  turn 
to  the  poem  of  "The  Dead  Lover,"  which  was  on  page  57, 
he  had  inadvertently  said,  "Turn  to  page  76."  It  occurred 
to  Adam  that  that  number,  though  not  the  one  he  intended, 
had  not  come  into  his  head  purely  by  chance;  so  Adam 
turned  to  page  76,  and  was  rewarded  by  rinding  there  a 
poem  that  he  recognized — the  last  sonnet,  the  one  which 
Sir  David  was  said  to  have  written  in  the  desert  of  Kor- 
dofan  the  night  before  he  was  slain:  that  was  in  January, 
1885,  nearly  thirty  years  ago.  Adam  read  it  through,  first 
silently,  and  then,  strangely  moved  by  it,  he  solemnly  re- 
cited it: 


THE  LAST  PENITENCE 

"Here,  in  the  dark  of  the  desert,  that  ultimate  night 

That  hangs  upon  Africa,  drowning  the  memory  of  day, 
Making  Egyptian  darkness  itself  as  broad  light, 
I  kneel  me  in  mystery  to  pray. 


148  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Not  to  Osiris  I  turn,  the  sleek  lord  of  the  sun: 
Nor  to  old  Jupiter,  jovial  and  hotheaded  god: 
Nor  to  Jehovah,  the  bilious,  mean-spirited  one. 

I  seek  not  a  heavenly  crown,  and  I  fear  not  the  rod. 
Let  them  ride  their  celestial  hippogriffs  over  my  corse  .  .  . 

Until  my  soul  die,  the  smile  of  disdain  shall  not  fade. 
Not  for  the  gods  have  I  a  thought  of  remorse. 

Only  of  him  who  may  follow  me  am  I  afraid.  .  .  . 
If  thou  art  he,  I  beg  thee  abject  to  forgive 
Him  that  lies  dead,  for  the  folly  that  called  thee 
to  live." 

He  repeated  it  aloud  once  again;  Attracta,  bringing  him 
up  his  dinner,  could  hear  him  from  the  staircase,  and  was 
extremely  alarmed;  for,  although  she  could  not  parse  the 
dead  baronet's  verse,  she  gathered  enough  of  its  tenor  to 
suspect  that  it  was  impious. 

"Oh,  Master  Adam!"  she  cried,  putting  down  the  tray 
with  a  bang,  "you  ought  not  to  say  such  things  on  Christmas 
Eve ;  if  Miss  Gannon  heard  you  she  wouldn't  let  you  come 
and  light  the  Christmas  candle,  and  that  would  be  a  pity, 
wouldn't  it  ?"  Adam  waved  the  book  at  her. 

"What  have  you  got  there  ?"  said  she :  "is  it  that  has  the 
bad  words?" 

"Come  here  and  look  at  it,"  said  Adam,  and,  as  she  ap- 
proached, opened  it  at  the  frontispiece. 

Attracta  was  charmed.  "Oh,  isn't  he  the  lovely  gentle- 
man?" she  cried.  "And  the  humbuggin'  eyes  of  him!" 
Then  she  recoiled  with  a  shriek. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Adam,  dropping  the  book. 

"Didn't  you  see,  didn't  you  see  him  ?"  she  gasped. 

Something  cold  passed  down  Adam's  back  as  he  picked 
the  book  up.  "I  didn't  see  anything,"  he  said. 

"I  saw,"  Attracta  declared  emphatically,  "he  was  looking 
right  at  you  and  trying  to  speak." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

FOR  a  small  boy,  and  more  particularly  one  brought  up  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Pro-Cathedral,  Dublin,  Adam  was  not 
superstitious:  as  the  craven  and  ghastly  terrors  of  his  in- 
fancy had  been  left  behind  in  the  saner  atmosphere  of  Mr. 
Macarthy  and  Herr  Behre — though  even  Father  Innocent 
had  struggled  as  best  he  knew  how  to  eliminate  from  his 
God  the  taint  of  demonology — Adam  was  gathering  strength 
to  question  the  appearance  and  right  of  any  mere  bogey  to 
cast  spells  on  him.  Also  he  had  no  respect,  despite  his 
affection,  for  Attracta :  he  considered  her  to  be  hardly  better 
than  feeble-minded,  and,  in  fact,  she  did  belong  to  that 
class  in  Ireland,  of  the  very  lowest  order  of  intelligence  .  .  . 
temperamentally  a  slave,  unfit  for  any  other  occupation. 

"Pooh !"  said  Adam  stoutly,  staring  the  portrait  boldly  in 
the  face,  "you're  silly  to  be  frightened  of  a  picture;  this  old 
chap  died — he  was  killed,  you  know,  in  Africa — years  and 
years  before  I  was  born.  Just  look  at  it  again." 

"Not  for  anything,"  she  protested,  shrinking  from  the 
proffered  book.  "I  don't  know  anything  about  him,  but  I 
seen  his  photo  looking  at  you  right  enough,  and  I  tell  you 
he's  trying  to  talk  to  you.  .  .  .  And,  anyhow,  there's  your 
dinner." 

She  left  the  room  a  little  offended  at  Adam's  refusal  to 
be  frightened,  and,  oddly  enough,  after  she  was  gone,  Adam 
was  conscious  of  not  liking  to  be  left  alone  with  the  book. 
He  shut  it  up,  and  ate  his  dinner  hastily,  so  that  he  might 
ring  for  her  to  come  back  again.  .  .  .  He  was  very  pleased 
to  be  summoned  downstairs  presently  to  light  the  Christmas 

149 


150  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

candle,  and  spoke  the  accompanying  prayers  with  unusual 
reverence.  This  ceremony  took  place  in  the  kitchen,  which 
on  this  occasion  seemed  to  him  to  look  cheerful.  He  made 
an  excuse  to  dawdle  there  for  a  long  time,  patting  St.  Kevin 
and  wishing  him  a  Happy  Christmas. 

"It's  no  use  your  doing  that,"  Miss  Gannon  protested: 
"cats  have  no  souls." 

"Are  you  sure  ?"  Adam  asked. 

"Of  course  I'm  sure,"  she  snapped. 

"But  how  do  you  know  ?"  he  returned. 

She  turned  on  him :  "Well,  now,  for  you  to  ask  that ;  why, 
even  poor  Attracta  there  knows  better  than  to  think  any 
animal  would  be  having  a  soul." 

"But  you  and  Attracta  are  both  animals,"  Adam  said, 
without  meaning  to  be  offensive,  but  he  saw  at  once  that  he 
had  made  a  mistake.  Miss  Gannon  actually  reddened. 

"Is  that  what  they  teach  you  at  Clongowes?"  she  said — 
"to  insult  a  lady?  That's  the  last  Christmas  candle  you'll 
light  in  this  kitchen,"  and  she  made  an  effort  to  puff  it  out, 
but  happily  failed ;  for  it  would  have  been  unlucky  thus  to 
extinguish  it. 

"You  don't  understand,"  Adam  retorted ;  "I'm  an  animal 
just  as  much  as  you." 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  snarled  Miss  Gannon ;  "I'm  not  an 
animal,  and  never  was,  and  never  will  be;  and  if  I  ever  find 
that  Attracta's  an  animal,  out  she  goes,  bag  and  baggage!" 

"But  if  you're  not  an  animal,"  Adam  argued,  really 
anxious  to  conciliate  her,  though  not,  perhaps,  very  tactful : 
"if  you're  not  an  animal,  what  on  earth  are  you?" 

"What  on  earth  am  I  ?"  Miss  Gannon  repeated  scornfully ; 
"that's  a  question  to  ask  me !" 

Adam  began  to  lose  patience  with  her  denseness :  "You  see, 
you  don't  know  what  you  are.  .  .  .  You  really  don't,  Miss 
Gannon.  .  .  .  It's  no  use  pretending  that  you  do." 

In  her  indignation,  Miss  Gannon  made  a  further  effort  to 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR  151 

extinguish  the  Christmas  candle,  and  again  failed.  "I  sup- 
pose you'd  say,"  she  spluttered,  "that  your  own  mother  was 
an  animal  ?" 

"Of  course  she  was,"  Adam  eagerly  returned  ;  "ail  women 
are  animals  .  .  .  they're  .  .  ."  he  made  a  great  effort  of 
memory,  "they're  mammalia." 

This  word  had  a  staggering  effect  on  Miss  Gannon. 
''What's  a  mammalia?"  she  gasped. 

Adam,  suddenly  recalling  what  it  was,  blushed  at  the 
notion  of  defining  the  term  to  Miss  Gannon.  "It's  the 
plural  of  mammal,"  he  said,  "and  every  female  of  a  certain 
kind  is  a  mammal.  You're  a  mammal,  Attracta's  a  mammal, 
my  mother  is  a  mammal.  .  .  .  Even  the  Blessed  Virgin  her- 
self was  probably  a  mammal." 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Gannon  mollified,  and  even,  perhaps, 
exalted,  at  the  notion  of  being  placed  in  the  same  category 
with  the  Blessed  Virgin.  "She  was,  was  she?  Did  they 
tell  you  that  at  Clongowes  ?" 

Adam  was  not  prepared  to  give  a  direct  answer  to  this 
question.  "I  read  it  there  in  a  book,"  said  he. 

Miss  Gannon  looked  at  him  suspiciously :  "But  didn't  you 
go  and  say  that  you  were  a  mammal  too?"  she  asked. 

Adam  saw  the  difficulty,  and  was  anxious  to  close  the 
conversation.  "I  think  I'm  a  mammal,"  said  he,  "but  I 
forget  how." 

Miss  Gannon  snorted  triumphantly:  "A  little  knowledge 
is  a  dangerous  thing,"  said  she,  and,  content  with  having 
the  last  word,  she  allowed  him  to  depart  in  peace,  the 
Christmas  candle  still  burning. 

For  his  part,  Adam  was  glad  enough  to  avoid  further 
zoological  argument,  though  loth  to  leave  the  kitchen,  with 
the  cheering  reflections  from  its  well-polished  metals,  the 
curiously  consoling  companionship  of  St.  Kevin,  more  in- 
telligent than  Attracta,  more  human  than  Miss  Gannon,  and 
the  evil-exorcising  beams  of  the  Christmas  candle,  to  climb 


152  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

the  mean  staircase,  which,  there  being  no  one  in  on  the 
intermediate  floors,  rang  hollow,  as  he  fancied,  climbing  to 
his  lonely  little  room,  where  the  portrait  of  that  charming 
but  wicked  baronet,  who  had  come  to  such  an  untimely  end 
after  saying  such  deplorably  incautious  things,  was  waiting 
to  tempt  him  to  look  at  it.  Before  he  reached  the  mid-way 
of  the  last  flight,  he  had  ceased  to  think  of  mammalia  or  any 
other  scientific  thought,  and  was  concerned  only  with  the 
finding  of  some  excuse  for  going  downstairs  again.  .  .  . 
But  none  occurred  to  him,  and  he  stood  with  his  fingers 
shaking  the  handle  of  his  door,  unable  to  summon  up  reso- 
lution to  open  it,  and  wishing,  firstly,  that  the  Marchesa  had 
not  presented  him  with  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn's  poems, 
and,  alternately,  that  he  had  not  shown  them  to  Attracta. 
.  .  .  He  felt  a  resentment  against  the  whole  female  sex  be- 
cause of  these  two  who  had  so  unmanned  him.  .  .  .  St. 
George's  bells  struck  ten :  it  was  two  hours  still  to  midnight, 
and,  reflecting  that  ghosts  were  said  not  to  be  allowed  out 
much  earlier  than  that,  he  opened  his  door  and  walked  in. 

His  heart  jumped  into  his  mouth.  .  .  .  There  was  some- 
one sitting  by  the  fire.  Suppressing  a  scream,  he  clung  to 
the  door. 

"Ach!"  said  Herr  Behre,  "you  look  as  one  who  has  seen 
a  ghost.  You  do  not,  I  hope,  resent  my  intrusion?" 

Adam  eyed  him  as  he  sat  there  by  the  fire,  with  Aftermath 
open  on  his  lap.  "I  didn't  hear  you  come  in,"  Adam  babbled ; 
"I  thought  you  were  a  burglar." 

"And  you  have  many  riches,"  said  Herr  Behre  drily.  "A 
sporting  Irish  burglar  would  be  glad  of  a  football,  but  I  am 
a  German  of  the  before-sporting  period,  and  I  came  not  to 
burgle  your  football.  Had  I  the  burgling  art,  I  might,  per- 
haps, rob  you  of  this" — and  he  waved  the  book  of  verses. 

"Oh,  please  take  it — do,"  said  Adam  eagerly. 

Fond  as  was  the  German  of  his  little  friend,  he  was  not 
prepared  for  such  generosity.  "What  is  this  now?"  he 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR  153 

ejaculated,  "that  you  would  give  away  what  you  have  but 
just  received?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  quite  mean  to  give  it  away,"  Adam  hastened 
to  assure  him;  "of  course  I  wouldn't  do  that  with  a  present 
from  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica :  it  was  she  gave  it 
to  me,  you  know." 

Herr  Behre  smiled  grimly.  "I  know,"  said  he,  "it  has  for 
a  long  time  been  her  habitude." 

"Oh,"  murmured  Adam,  almost  crestfallen,  "did  she  give 
you  one  too?" 

"Me?  No,"  said  the  musician,  "or  why  should  I  covet 
your  copy?" 

Adam  was  unprepared  to  answer  this,  so  he  asked  a  ques- 
tion instead:  "You  have  never  read  them,  then?" 

"Yes  and  no,"  said  the  musician ;  "I  have  taken  the  book 
up  here  and  there,  but  I  have  never  done  so  with  the  respect 
that  one  owes  to  a  poet  that  is  worth  reading  at  all." 

"I  suppose  he  was  worth  reading?"  Adam  asked. 

"I  think,"  said  Herr  Behre  a  little  doubtfully,  "I  think 
he  may  have  been.  It  is  all  a  question  of  time  and  oppor- 
tunity ;  I  conceive  that  it  would  not  be  shameful  to  be  found 
dead  reading  these  poems." 

"Ah,"  said  Adam,  and  drew  a  long  breath.  He  sat  down 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire  and  looked  questioningly  at 
his  visitor.  "Then  you  don't  think  either  that  he  need  have 
been  ashamed  to  be  found  dead  after  writing  one  of  them?" 

The  musician  stroked  his  beard  thoughtfully.  "That 
rather  depends  upon  which  one,"  he  said. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Adam,  "of  the  one  he  wrote  the 
night  before  he  was  killed.  .  .  .  It's  on  page  76,"  he  added, 
as  he  saw  the  musician  turning  to  look  for  it. 

Herr  Behre  read  it  gravely  aloud,  and  Adam  gradually 
fo'und  himself  convulsed  with  laughter;  for  it  sounded  to 
him  merely  ridiculous  to  hear  the  good  man  passionately 
chanting  such  lines  as  "Leddem  rite  dare  zelezdial  hibbo- 


154  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

criffes  ofer  my  gorse"  and  "I  beck  dee  apshect  do  forkiff 
him  dat  lice  tett  for  de  folly  dat  calt  dee  do  liff."  He  was 
sharply  sobered  when  Herr  Behre  said  reproachfully: 
"What  is  there  to  laugh  at  in  that  ?" 

So  foolish  did  he  feel  himself  for  laughing  at  it  that  he 
subconsciously  covered  his  confusion  with  a  lie.  "I  was 
laughing,"  said  he,  "because  Attracta  was  frightened  by  the 
portrait  of  the  author  at  the  beginning  of  the  book." 

The  musician  turned  to  it.  "I  see,"  said  he :  "she  was 
frightened  because  it  looked  like  you." 

"Looked  at  me,"  Adam  corrected  him ;  "Attracta  said  she 
saw  him  looking  at  me  and  trying  to  speak." 

"Humph !"  said  Herr  Behre ;  "I  had  not  thought  the  good 
Attracta  would  have  psychic  power ;  but  who  am  I  to  judge 
Attracta?" 

Adam  asked  breathlessly:  "You  think,  then,  that  she 
really  saw  something  I  could  not  see  ?" 

The  musician  smiled.  "I  would  not  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that,  but  I  can  imagine  that  even  in  death  the  gallant  baronet 
would  find  it  less  trouble  to  manifest  himself  to  a  woman 
than  to  a  man." 

"But,"  said  Adam,  "she  said  he  was  trying  to  look  at  me 
and  trying  to  speak  to  me?" 

Herr  Behre's  look  was  inscrutable.  He  only  said :  "That 
may  have  been  Attracta's  modesty." 

Adam  laughed;  for  he  could  not  but  be  pleased  at  the 
notion  of  the  whilom  lover  of  the  Marchesa,  the  father  of 
Mrs.  Burns  and  grandfather  of  Barbara,  attempting  to  pay 
court  in  this  roundabout  manner  to  poor  Attracta. 

"Why  do  you  laugh  now?"  asked  Herr  Behre. 

''At  your  joke  about  the  baronet  making  love  to  Attracta." 

Said  Herr  Behre  grimly:  "If  the  baronet,  even  through 
the  medium  of  a  bad  reproduction  of  a  faulty  portrait,  made 
love  to  Attracta,  I  imagine  it  would  be  no  joke  for  her." 


155 

Adam  unexpectedly  felt  the  chill  down  his  spine  again. 
"But  do  you  think  that  possible?"  he  asked. 

Herr  Behre  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Has  not  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy  taught  you  that  no  wise  man  ever  says  what  is  pos- 
sible or  impossible?" 

Adam  confessed  that  Mr.  Macarthy  appeared  to  believe 
almost  everything  was  possible  except  what  other  people 
believed  in.  "But  do  you  think,"  he  suggested  eagerly,  "that 
the  baronet  could  really  be  trying  to  talk  to  me  ?" 

Herr  Behre  looked  from  the  portrait  to  page  76  and  back 
again  to  the  portrait.  "That  last  poem  does  appear  to  be 
addressed  to  somebody,  doesn't  it?"  he  asked.  "What  do 
you  understand  by  it  yourself?" 

Adam  looked  at  the  words  over  Herr  Behre's  shoulder. 
Conscientiously  he  paraphrased  the  whole  sonnet,  and  said 
at  last:  It's  addressed  to  him  who  comes  after  him,  who- 
ever that  may  be." 

"Presumably,"  said  Herr  Behre,  "he  is  addressing  himself 
to  his  heir." 

"His  heir?"  Adam  repeated.     "D'you  mean  his  son?" 

"His  son,"  said  Herr  Behre,  nodding,  "or  it  might  be  his 
grandson." 

As  Herr  Behre  expressed  the  opinion  that  the  baronet's 
last  poem  might  have  been  addressed  not  merely  to  his  son 
but  to  the  son  of  that  son,  the  bells  of  St.  George's  Church 
were  chiming  the  half  hour;  and,  with  the  irresponsibility 
of  youth,  Adam,  hearing  the  clock  strike,  was  reminded  that 
among  his  presents  was  a  wrist-watch  given  him  by  Mr. 
Macarthy,  which  he  had  not  yet  regarded  with  more  than 
a  passing  glance — for  Attracta  had  somehow  banished  the 
thought  of  Christmas  presents  from  his  mind.  Now  the 
thought  of  that  watch  distracted  him  from  Herr  Behre's 
answer  to  his  own  question.  .  .  .  After  all,  Adam  was  not 
the  old  gentleman's  son,  nor  yet  his  grandson ;  he  might 


i56  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

regret  that  he  was  not,  for  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to 
be  a  member  of  the  aristocracy,  but  it  was  no  use  pretend- 
ing that  he  was ;  Adam  had  no  pleasure  in  letting  his  mind 
run  on  the  subject  of  his  parentage;  so,  saying  by  way  of 
excuse,  "I  wonder  what  the  time  is,"  he  opened  the  parcel 
containing  his  watch  and  put  it  on  his  wrist.  "Fancy,"  he 
said,  "it's  half  past  eleven." 

"Half  past  eleven,"  said  Herr  Behre,  and  sighed.  "Time 
for  little  boys  to  be  in  bed." 

Adam  suppressed  a  yawn  that  he  might  say :  "It's  quite 
early  still";  then  he  noticed  that  Mr.  Macarthy's  card  had 
been  enclosed  in  the  parcel  and  that  there  were  some  lines 
of  writing  on  it.  He  carried  them  over  to  the  gas  jet  by  the 
fireplace  to  read :  "Do  you  remember  the  two  quotations 
from  St.  Matthew  in  the  first  lesson  of  the  Catechism  ?" 

Herr  Behre,  hearing  him  mumble,  asked  him  what  it  was, 
and  he  replied  that  his  guardian  asked  him  if  he  remem- 
bered two  quotations  from  the  Catechism.  Herr  Behre 
knitted  his  brows  with  a  puzzled  air.  "What  has  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy  to  do  with  the  Catechism?"  he  asked. 

Adam  in  his  turn  was  puzzled.  "He's  a  Catholic,"  said 
he,  "and  every  Catholic  has  to  know  the  Catechism." 

Herr  Behre  smiled.  "I  think  I  know  a  few  Catholics," 
said  he,  "but  not  a  great  many  who  know  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments." 

Adam  was  shocked,  and  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  it. 
"I  don't  know  many  who  know  it  better  than  myself,"  said 
he,  "but  they're  all  taught  it,  and  Mr.  Macarthy  knows  it 
better  than  I  do." 

Herr  Behre  admitted  that  Mr.  Macarthy  knew  most  things 
better  than  other  people.  "But  this  is  the  first  time,"  said 
he,  "that  I  have  heard  of  him  referring  to  the  Catechism. 
What  are  the  two  quotations?" 

Adam  answered  promptly:  "The  first  is  Matthew  xii.  36, 
and  the  second  is  also  Matthew  xix.  26." 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR  157 

"That  would  say  to  me  absolutely  nothing,"  said  Herr 
Behre,  then  before  Adam  could  reply  he  put  up  his  hand, 
"Wait  a  moment."  For  a  moment  he  sat  buried  in  thought : 
then,  with  both  hands  pressed  to  his  forehead,  his  eyes 
closed  and  thumbs  upon  his  ears  he  chanted :  "Ich  sage  euch 
aber,  das  die  Menschen  miissen  Rechenschaft  geben  am 
Jiingsten  Gericht  von  einem  jeglichen  unniitzen  Wort,  das 
sie  geredet  haben."  He  looked  up :  "Is  that  it,  eh  ?  He's 
cautioning  you  against  idle  words?" 

"That's  it,"  said  Adam.  "  'And  every  idle  word  that 
men  shall  speak,  they  shall  render  an  account  for  it  in  the 
day  of  judgment.' ''' 

"Good,"  said  Herr  Behre,  "and  now  what's  the  number 
of  the  other  one?" 

"Matthew  xix.,  26,"  Adam  told  him,  his  interest  roused 
by  the  musician's  exhibition  of  the  latent  powers  of  memory. 

Herr  Behre  muttered  under  his  breath:  "Matthai  Neun- 
zehn,  Sechsundzwanzig,"  then  he  said  aloud :  "Es  ist  leich- 

ter,  das  ein  Kameel  durch  ein  Nadelohr  gehe "  he  broke 

off,  "Nein,  nein,  das  ist  es  nicht,"  and  tried  again.  "Jesus 
aber  sahe  sie  an,  und  sprach  zu  ihnen:  'Bei  den  Menschen 
ist  es  unmoglich,  aber  bei  Gott  sind  alle  Dinge  moglich.' " 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when  Adam, 
anxious  to  air  his  little  knowledge  of  German,  cried  out: 
"That's  it,  you  got  it  again.  'With  God  all  things  are 
possible.' " 

"Ha !"  said  Herr  Behre  between  pride  and  weariness 
drawing  a  deep  breath,  "So  I  knew  Mr.  Macarthy's  two 
quotations  after  all,  at  any  rate  as  I  read  them  once  in  grand 
old  Martin  Luther's  Bible." 

"Grand  old  Martin  Luther?"  Adam  repeated  aghast,  "Do 

you  really  mean  'grand  old ' "  he  stopped  dead,  he  was 

too  astonished  to  repeat  the  name  again. 

"That's  what  Robert  Browning  calls  him,"  Herr  Behre 
informed  him,  "though  I  don't  know  that  I  quite  agree  with 


158  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

him.  He  was  a  sycophant  of  princes  and  a  time-server  and 
as  bigoted  himself  as  the  worst  of  the  bigots  he  fought 
against,  but  he  did  do  something  to  make  German  a  real 
language  and  for  that  I  feel  grateful  to  him." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  "I  thought  he  was  just  a  bad  priest." 

Herr  Behre  looked  at  him  and  grunted :  "The  worse  the 
better."  Then  he  added  in  a  milder  tone :  "No,  you  must  not 
take  me  to  mean  that ;  there  is  nothing  better  perhaps  of  its 
kind  than  a  good  priest,  such  as  your  friend  Father  Inno- 
cent. But,"  he  added  gravely,  "to  be  a  priest  at  all  is  a 
great  temptation  to  be  bad." 

"How  is  it  a  temptation  to  be  bad  ?"  Adam  asked,  for  no 
one  had  put  this  view  of  Sacerdotalism  before  him.  He 
knew  that  priests  could  be  bad,  but  he  thought  they  would 
have  been  still  worse  if  they  had  not  been  priests. 

Herr  Behre  told  him :  "Because  the  priest  represents  him- 
self as  an  agent  appointed  directly  by  God  to  exercise  His 
will  on  those  who  are  not  priests." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  "and  you  think  that  their  being  ap- 
pointed by  God  is  all  imaginary?" 

"I  think  that  God  himself  is  imaginary,"  said  Herr  Behre. 

It  seemed  to  Adam  that  the  room  was  swimming  round 
him.  "God  .  .  .  imaginary !"  he  ejaculated. 

Herr  Behre  smiled  at  him  reassuringly.  "Don't  be 
alarmed,  I  do  not  blaspheme.  There  is  a  God,  I  well  believe, 
and  not  a  God  made  of  protoplasm." 

"What's  protoplasm?"  Adam  broke  in,  anxious  even  at 
this  moment  of  dread  to  add  a  new  word  of  such  interest- 
ing purport  to  his  vocabulary. 

But  Herr  Behre  declined  to  be  drawn  into  a  definition  of 
the  word.  "It  is  too  late  for  that,"  he  alleged.  "Both  of 
us  little  boys  must  go  to  bed,  but  I  would  have  you  under- 
stand that  when  I  say  God  is  imaginary,  I  only  mean  that 
our  conception  of  God  is  arrived  at  through  our  imagina- 
tion, I  mean  the  imaginations  of  our  great  poets,  such  as 


THE.  WITCHING  HOUR  159 

that  Jewish  gentleman  who  was  content  to  write  under  the 
pseudonym  of  'Moses.' " 

The  Dustman,  called  Morpheus,  added  to  the  mystifica- 
tion with  which  even  at  the  best  of  times  this  speech  would 
have  overwhelmed  Adam.  He  murmured  rather  drowsily: 
"I  suppose  the  baronet  was  not  such  a  great  poet  as  all 
that?" 

Said  Herr  Behre :  "He  was  poet  enough  to  have  his  own 
conception  of  God,  but  not  poet  enough,  it  would  seem,  to 
have  a  great  conception  of  Him ;  and  yet,  who  knows  ?" — he 
fell  silent — then,  looking  in  the  fire,  repeated :  "Who  knows, 
who  knows  ?"  There  was  again  silence,  and,  still  looking  in 
the  fire,  Adam  thought,  as  if  he  saw  Sir  David  burning  in 
the  heart  of  hell,  "His  last  thought  of  God  was  a  bitter  one, 
but  not  so  bitter  as  his  thought  of  himself  .  .  .  his  case  no 
man  must  judge."  He  turned  to  the  book  of  verses  again, 
and  read  in  a  tone  in  which  Adam  now  found  nothing  to 
laugh : 

"Only  of  him  who  may  follow  me  am  I  afraid.  .  .  . 
If  thou  art  he,  I  beg  thee  abject  to  forgive 
Him  that  lies  dead,  for  the  folly  that  called  thee  to  live." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  Adam's  head  was  drooping 
on  his  breast,  and  he  was  wondering  whether  he  had  not 
heard  himself  snore,  when  he  felt  the  musician  take  him  on 
his  knee.  "Say  now  to  me,"  said  he,  "if  you  were  the  poet's 
son  or  grandson,  would  you  forgive  him  for  bringing  you 
into  the  world?" 

Adam  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  up,  startled,  into  his 
questioner's  face.  "There's  nothing  to  forgive,"  said  he; 
"I'm  jolly  glad  to  be  alive."  He  yawned.  "But  I  don't 
understand;  what's  it  all  about?"  Then  he  fell  asleep  in 
Herr  Behre's  arms,  lulled  by  the  distant  bells  ringing  their 
first  joyous  peal  for  the  coming  of  Christmas  Day.  Then 


160  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

the  heavier  bells  of  St.  George's,  so  near  at  hand,  roused 
him  enough  for  him  to  undress  himself,  with  the  aid  of 
Herr  Behre,  who  kissed  his  forehead  and  his  hands,  and, 
blowing  out  the  candle,  wished  him  a  Happy  Christmas  and 
Good-night.  He  had  no  bad  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XX 
OF  DEATH  AND  BURIAL 

THAT  Christmas  morning  of  his  fourteenth  year  Adam 
awoke  at  the  agreeable  hour,  for  that  time  of  the  season, 
of  a  quarter  to  eight  o'clock,  so  that,  without  jumping  out 
of  bed  at  once,  he  could,  nevertheless,  be  up  and  doing 
before  the  sun.  Owing,  however,  to  his  feeling  particularly 
well-satisfied  with  himself,  he  allowed  the  sun  to  beat  him 
by  twenty  minutes,  and  he  was  still  dressing  at  a  quarter 
to  nine.  Still,  he  enjoyed  his  breakfast,  for  he  felt  his 
virtue  to  be  so  great  as  to  cover  his  unpunctuality.  He  did 
not  remember  everything  that  had  passed  the  day  before, 
but  he  recollected  that  he  had  forgiven  Father  Tudor  (or 
at  any  rate  he  said  to  himself  that  he  had),  and  he  had  also 
offered  to  forgive  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn,  in  the  event, 
admittedly  improbable,  of  there  being  anything  to  forgive. 
There  as  something  peculiarly  gratifying  in  the  thought 
that  he  might  be  privileged  to  forgive  a  baronet  for  being  his 
grandfather.  .  .  .  Then  he  had  the  sense  to  laugh  at  him- 
self as  he  recalled  the  impossibility  of  that  baronet  being 
his  grandfather.  Baronets  do  not  have  grandchildren  born 
in  the  slums.  .  .  .  The  recollection  that  he  had  been  born  in 
the  slums  sobered,  and  even  saddened  him,  until,  looking 
round  the  room,  he  was  cheered  again,  particularly  when  he 
saw  the  pile  of  his  presents,  to  reflect  upon  the  difference 
between  the  hideous  past  and  the  cozy  present.  He  de- 
termined to  dismiss  from  his  mind  all  hankerings  after 
gentility  of  pedigree,  and  to  show  his  gratitude  to  those 
who  were  good  to  him  by  gentility  of  conduct.  Attracta  had 
brought  him  his  breakfast,  and  they  had  exchanged  greet- 

161 


162  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

ings.  He  now  went  downstairs  to  wish  Miss  Gannon  herself 
a  Happy  Christmas.  She  was  almost  moved  to  kiss  him, 
but,  fortunately,  the  saints  said  "No."  She  suggested  that 
Adam  should  likewise  carry  his  salutations  to  Mr.  Murphy, 
on  the  first  floor,  but  this  was  asking  too  much  of  him ;  the 
odor  that  hung  about  that  whiskified  scion  of  the  law  was 
loathsome  to  him;  pretending  to  think  that  he  was  asleep, 
he  went  upstairs  past  his  door,  and  on  to  Herr  Behre's. 

Herr  Behre  was  at  his  piano,  pensively  harmonizing  an 
ancient  French  carol,  while  he  whispered  rather  than  sang 
the  words  to  himself. 

Adam,  sitting  there  warming  his  hands  by  the  fire,  realized 
that,  as  he  played,  this  whispered  chant  had  an  extraordi- 
nary quality  of  emotion:  he  wondered  that  Herr  Behre,  who 
apparently  did  not  believe  in  Christianity,  could  be  so 
affected  by  a  song  about  Christ  .  .  .  should  be  willing,  in- 
deed, to  have  any  truck  with  Christ  at  all.  But,  somehow, 
he  did  not  ask  Mr.  Behre  any  question  on  this  subject,  but 
presently  stole  away  so  quietly  that  the  musician,  not  hear- 
ing his  movement,  played  on  his  unbroken  melody. 

Returning  to  his  room,  Adam  dressed  himself  with  par- 
ticular care,  and  at  half  past  eleven,  rather  earlier  than 
usual,  started  out  to  pick  up  Mr.  Macarthy  at  Mountjoy 
Square.  In  Gardiner's  Place  he  was  fortunate  to  encounter 
Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde,  not  too  belated  to  stop  to  shake  his 
hand  and  wish  him  a  Happy  Christmas.  "You  look,"  said 
the  big  man,  "as  if  you  were  happy.  Thank  God!" 

Adam  certainly  had  the  intention  of  thanking  God,  but  he 
felt  it  would  be  only  fair  to  thank  Herr  Behre  and  several 
others  too :  it  was  an  intricate  matter,  this  proper  allocation 
of  thanks  between  mortals  and  immortals,  but  he  supposed 
that  God  should  have  the  lion's  share.  ...  At  any  rate,  it 
would  be  on  the  safe  side  to  give  it  to  Him. 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  to  see  Adam.  "I  think  I  know," 
said  he,  "who  is  a  happy  boy  this  morning."  And  Adam 


OF  DEATH  AND  BURIAL  163 

blushed  and  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  of  the  virtuous 
acts  which  made  him  happy,  but  decided  that  he  had  better 
leave  well  alone ;  so  to  Gardiner  Street  Church  they  went, 
silently,  arm  in  arm,  and  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear  an 
excellent  sermon  from  Father  Ignatius  Steele. 

The  mood  of  Christmas  was  essentially  the  mood  for 
Father  Steele :  it  best  inspired  his  pellucid  and  benevolent 
intelligence.  "My  brethren,"  he  said  in  effect,  "he  that 
speaks  to  you  is  not  a  scholar — the  higher  domains  of  the- 
ology are  closed  to  him;  he  may  not  roam  there,  plucking 
out  the  finest  flower  of  the  convincing  arguments  which 
have  sufficed  to  convince  all  but  those  whom  pride  has 
swept  beyond  the  possibility  of  conviction,  or,  better  let  me 
say,  the  immediate  probability  of  conviction,  of  the  truth  of 
the  Christian  religion  as  it  has  been  expounded  through  the 
unbroken  tradition  of  our  Holy  Church.  ...  I  am  no 
scholiast.  .  .  .  But  this  I  say  to  you :  that  for  me  it  is 
enough  to  believe  that  God  himself  came  into  the  world  to 
manifest  Himself  to  us  as  a  little  child,  and  it  is  for  us  to 
go  forth  to  meet  Him  by  becoming  again  little  children  in 
His  Holy  Name,  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ.  .  .  ." 

That  was  just  how  Adam  felt  as  he  sat  there  listening  to 
his  admired  preacher's  persuasive  tone,  seemingly  harmon- 
ized with  the  Adeste  Fidelis  still  echoing  in  his  ears ;  there 
was  something  pasionately  cheerful  in  the  whole  atmosphere 
of  the  Church :  he  seemed  that  moment  to  understand  what 
had  so  often  puzzled  him,  and  found  nothing  unnatural  in 
rejoicing  that  a  God  had  been  born  into  the  world  to  be 
tormented  and  harried  out  of  it  by  men.  .  .  .  After  all, 
what  could  it  matter  to  a  God  the  worst  that  men  could  do 
to  Him?  He  remembered  that  one  part  of  God  had  ex- 
plained to  the  other,  and,  he  supposed,  less  intelligent  parts 
(anyhow,  the  more  old-fashioned  parts)  that  men  knew  not 
what  they  did.  ...  It  occurred  to  him  that  men  knew  very 
little  more  about  it  now,  nineteen  hundred  years  afterwards. 


164  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

.  .  .  Look  at  the  way  Father  Tudor  had  tormented  him, 
but  he  wasn't  going  back  on  that:  he  had  forgiven  Father 
Tudor. 

Coming  out  of  Church,  Mr.  Macarthy  said  that  before 
their  early  dinner  he  had  a  call  to  pay,  and  after  looking  in 
at  Alountjoy  Square,  where  he  found  a  parcel,  which  Adam 
judged  to  contain  toys,  he  led  him  down  Fitzgibbon  Street 
to  a  shabby  little  house  in  the  Circular  Road,  which,  bidding 
Adam  to  wait  outside  a  moment,  he  entered,  the  door  being 
opened  for  him  by  a  little  girl  who,  if  only  because  it  was 
Christmas  time,  looked  less  shabby  than  the  house.  Behind 
the  closed  door  Adam  could  hear  the  rapturous  squeaking 
of  other  children,  which  told  him  that  Mr.  Macarthy's  parcel 
was  being  opened.  Enjoying  a  sort  of  semi-proprietorial 
interest  in  the  ecstasies  of  the  unseen  children,  Adam  stepped 
out  in  the  direction  of  Drumcondra  to  keep  himself  warm 
while  waiting.  His  exultant  feeling  was  dismally  checked 
as,  at  the  end  of  twenty  feet,  he  swung  round  to  return, 
and  his  eye  caught  sight,  curling  into  the  perspective  that 
closed  that  segment  of  the  road,  of  the  slow  approach  of  a 
funeral:  funerals  had  always  seemed  to  him  more  terrible 
than  death.  To  die  was  a  natural  thing,  but  to  have  a 
funeral  seemed  something  purely  artificial — an  invention 
to  disgust  you  with  Nature.  Usually  he  turned  his  back  on 
funerals  until  the  hearse  was  actually  passing,  when,  of 
course,  he  stood  to  attention  to  salute  the  corpse;  but  this 
particular  funeral,  catching  him  when  he  was  unprepared 
for  it,  was  not  to  be  ignored.  Slowly,  very  slowly,  it  ad- 
vanced down  that  long  perspective  towards  him,  the  white 
plumes  on  the  horses'  heads  told  him  that  it  was  a  burial 
of  youth.  His  mind  reverted  at  once  to  his  vision,  real  or 
fanciful,  of  Caroline  Brady  twenty  hours  before.  .  .  .  Any- 
how, whatever  it  was,  it  was  not  her  funeral.  .  .  .  He 
wished  that  Mr.  Macarthy  would  hurry  up,  so  that  they 
might  get  safely  away  up  Fitzgibbon  Street  before  the 


OF  DEATH  AND  BURIAL  165 

sordid,  gloomy,  fascinating  thing  got  any  nearer.  He  stood 
at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  and  strained  his  ears  for  a  signal 
that  his  guardian  was  coming,  but  he  heard  no  more  than 
vague  reverberations  of  the  mirth  of  romping  children.  .  .  . 
The  funeral  came  on  and  on;  it  was  not  a  long  funeral,  not 
as  long  even  as  Mr.  Macfadden's — the  hearse,  two  mourning 
coaches,  a  cab  and  a  car.  Adam  doffed  his  hat  as  the  hearse 
passed.  A  small  coffin,  not  a  child's,  but  small ;  he  imagined 
a  hobbledehoy  inside  it.  In  the  mourning  coach — he  saw 
only  the  leading  one — sat  a  woman  whose  appearance  he  did 
not  like,  and  a  man  he  cared  for  even  less :  the  woman  oddly 
reminded  him  of  the  lady  who  lived  on  the  first  floor  at 
Pleasant  Street,  and  desired  Mr.  Moore  to  play  "Love's 
Dream,"  but  she  was  older  and  wearier  looking.  The  man 
was  dressed  like  a  gentleman,  in  a  tall  hat,  and  a  hand  in  a 
black  kid  glove  rested  on  the  frame  of  the  window.  He 
looked  at  Adam  as  if  he  would  say  to  him :  "This  funeral 
belongs  to  me;  it  is  not  the  first  I  have  had  the  honor  of 
owning,  and  it  will  not  be  the  last."  Adam,  disconcerted 
by  the  perverse  pride  of  this  gentleman's  glance,  which 
seemed  to  his  own  joy  of  life  immoral,  looked  away  from 
him  to  the  opposite  seat,  and  saw  there,  sitting  all  alone, 
with  her  back  to  the  coachman,  Caroline  Brady.  .  .  .  Their 
eyes  met ;  he  snatched  off  his  hat,  which  had  barely  returned 
to  his  head  from  its  salute  to  the  corpse,  and  she,  whether 
or  not  recognizing  him,  bowed  and  smiled  with  obvious 
gratification.  .  .  .  Then  the  door  behind  him  banged,  and 
he  and  Mr.  Macarthy,  dodging  behind  the  tail  of  the  funeral, 
marched  up  Fitzgibbon  Street. 

To  Mr.  Macarthy  Adam  said  nothing  of  what  he  had 
seen;  he  had  never  mentioned  Caroline's  name  to  his  guar- 
dian, and  an  odd  feeling  came  over  him  as  they  climbed 
the  hill  to  the  square  that  perhaps  he  might  never  do  so  now. 
Of  Josephine  O'Meagher  he  felt  he  might  talk  to  him — 
indeed,  had  done  so — and  of  Barbara  Burns  he  had  no  diffi- 


166  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

culty  in  talking,  but  Caroline  Brady  was  a  secret  to  be  kept 
to  himself;  true,  Herr  Behre  knew  of  her,  but  he  thought 
that  by  this  time  he  had  forgotten  her  name.  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy's  voice  fell  on  his  ear:  "You  weren't  cold  waiting 
there,  I  hope?" 

"N-no,"  said  Adam  with  hesitation,  and  added,  as  if  it 
were  in  answer  to  the  question:  "Funerals  are  queer  old 
things." 

"They  are,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  almost  savagely. 
"Damned  things.  I  detest  them." 

Now  that  they  were  up  in  the  square  again,  Adam  was 
cheerier  and  could  talk  of  funerals  with  detachment.  "Why 
do  people  have  them  ?"  he  asked. 

"Because  they  cling  to  abominations  of  all  kinds,"  Mr. 
Macarthy  answered;  and  their  arrival  at  his  house  closed 
the  conversation. 

The  only  one  at  dinner  was  Herr  Behre,  and  after  dinner, 
which  was  jolly  enough,  Mr.  Macarthy  turned  to  him  and 
said :  "Adam  shares  my  dislike  for  funerals." 

"Ach,"  said  Herr  Behre,  "why  should  you  dislike  a  poor 
funeral?  We  have  all  got  to  die,  and  it  is  insanitary  not 
to  be  buried." 

"It's  morally  insanitary,"  Mr.  Macarthy  returned,  "to 
have  a  funeral." 

"You  must  have  something,"  Herr  Behre  argued. 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy ;  "you  can  have  the  dust- 
man." 

Adam  pricked  his  ears.  "That  reminds  me  of  something 
Father  Innocent  said,"  he  declared.  "He  thought  an  empty 
hearse  was  no  more  than  a  dustcart,  or  even  a  full  hearse." 

"If  Father  Innocent  had  been  Pope,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said, 
"I  should  have  been  a  good  Catholic." 

"Bah!"  said  Herr  Behre,  "you  are  always  joking." 

**If  Father  Innocent  had  been  Pope,"  Mr.  Macarthy  in- 


OF  DEATH  AND  BURIAL  167 

sisted,  "all  people  who  joke  would  have  been  good  Catholics." 

Herr  Behre  put  on  a  pair  of  pince-nez  and  looked  at  him 
gravely.  "Is  it  you  who  have  warned  Adam  Macfadden 
against  idle  words?"  he  demanded. 

"I  have,"  Mr.  Macarthy  avowed.  "Idle  words  lead,  more 
than  anything  else  does,  to  damnation;  they  are  the  intel- 
lectual source  of  all  misery." 

"What,  exactly,  do  you  mean  by  idle  words  ?"  Herr  Behre 
asked. 

Mr.  Macarthy  looked  at  him  with  real  or  affected  aston- 
ishment. "I  mean,"  said  he,  "the  language,  public  and 
private,  of  those  people  commonly  described  by  themselves 
as  the  governing  classes." 

"But,"  Herr  Behre  protested,  "what  need  is  there  to  warn 
Adam  against  the  language  of  the  governing  classes?" 

"Think,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "Why,  even  I,  but  for  the 
merciful  interposition  of  Providence,  might  now  be  govern- 
ing a  part  of  India." 

"So  far  as  government  is  to  be  tolerated  at  all,"  said  Herr 
Behre,  "you  would  have  done  it  better  than  another." 

"Just  so,"  smiled  Mr.  Macarthy ;  "my  superb  brain  would 
have  been  used  to  assist  in  the  perpetuation  of  an  iniquity." 

"I  don't  understand,"  Adam  broke  in;  "is  it  wrong  to 
govern  India?" 

"It  is  wrong  to  govern  anything,"  Mr.  Macarthy  an- 
swered firmly,  "against  the  consent  of  that  thing." 

"Hear,  hear,"  said  Herr  Behre.  "Now  I  take  your  mean- 
ing— that  the  laws  of  such  governments  are  idle  words." 

"Their  laws,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said  with  unusual  gravity, 
"and  their  prayers,  and  what  they  call  their  words  of  honor, 
are  all  equally  idle.  .  .  .  Idler  than  the  poorest  of  the  poems 
of  David  Byron-Quinn;  for  even  his  false  sentiments  were 
an  effort  to  get-away  from  the  sentiments  of  greater  falsity 
which  inspired  his  brothers  in  arms." 


168  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Adam,  he  knew  not  why,  was  glad  to  hear  his  guardian 
speak  well  of  the  slain  baronet.  Seeing  there  was  a  chance 
for  him  to  say  something  which  appeared  appropriate  to 
the  general  tenor  of  the  discussion,  he  spoke  up,  addressing 
himself  to  Mr.  Macarthy:  "Do  you  think,  sir,"  said  he, 
"that  the  baronet  was  glad  to  think  that  he  wasn't  going  to 
have  a  funeral?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  and  Herr  Behre  broke  into  laughter,  and 
Mr.  Macarthy  had  to  pull  himself  together  to  say:  "Lucky 
dog!  He  had  no  time  to  think  about  it." 

"Lucky  dog?"  Adam  echoed;  "do  you  really  mean  he  was 
a  lucky  dog?" 

"He  was  generally  thought  so,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  grimly, 
"whatever  he  may  have  thought  about  it  himself." 

"But,"  Adam  protested,  "that  last  poem  of  his  was  des- 
perately sad." 

Mr.  Macarthy  answered :  "David  Byron-Quinn  was  a  man 
of  moods.  He  may  have  been  depressed  the  night  before 
his  death,  but  his  death  itself  you  may  be  sure  that  he  en- 
joyed, perhaps  almost  as  much  as  those  who  killed  him." 

Adam  shuddered.  "He  must  have  been  a  queer  man," 
said  he. 

"He  was,"  Mr.  Macarthy  agreed,  "as  queer  as  you,  as 
queer  as  I."  His  voice  fell,  and  Adam  was  thinking  of  this 
queerness,  that  seemed  all  the  queerer  for  the  gloom  falling 
in  the  room,  as  the  Christmas  sun  went  down  behind  Find- 
later's  Church.  There  was  a  long  silence  ere  anyone  spoke 
again;  then  Mr.  Macarthy,  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  was  thrown  into  ruddy  silhouette  by  a  sudden  blaze  of 
flame  from  the  coals  behind  him,  and  he  recited  dreamily : 

"And  David's  Lips  are  lock't;  but  in  divine 
High-piping  Pehlevi,  with  'Wine !  Wine !  Wine  ! 

Red  Wine !' — the  Nightingale  cries  to  the  Rose 
That  sallow  cheek  of  hers  t'  incarnadine." 


OF  DEATH  AND  BURIAL  169 

In  his  cursory  glance  through  the  poems  of  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn,  Adam  had  not  noticed  any  lines  resembling 
these.  "Did  the  baronet  write  that  too?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Macarthy  smilingly  shook  his  head.  "No,  the  baronet 
wrote  nothing  so  good  as  that,"  he  said,  "but  he  had  the 
sense  to  see  the  goodness  of  it  before  lesser  men  realized 
that  the  man  who  wrote  it  was  a  great  poet." 

"Who  was  he  ?"  asked  Adam  eagerly.  "I  never  heard  of 
him." 

"He  was  Edward  Fitzgerald,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  "or, 
if  you  like,  he  was  Omar  Khayyam."  Without  leaving  his 
place,  he  reached  a  little  book  from  the  shelves  above  his 
head,  and  tossed  it  over  to  his  youthful  guest.  "Take  them 
home  with  you,"  he  said,  "but  not  to  Clongowes,  or  they 
will  share  the  fate  of  the  Boy's  Oivn  Paper" 

And  that  night,  by  the  light  of  the  bull's  eye  lantern  (for 
although  there  was  no  reason  now  why  he  should  not  have 
kept  the  gas  burning,  Adam  was  temperamentally  conserva- 
tive), he  departed  from  Greece  into  Persia. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
ADAM  IS  ADVISED  TO  READ  THE  BIBLE 

ENTHUSIASM  roused  Adam  early  on  St.  Stephen's  Day,  and, 
with  his  new  literary  treasure  in  his  hand,  he  addressed 
himself  from  his  bed  to  the  spire  of  St.  George's  Church 
in  these  terms: 

"Wake !     For  the  Sun,  who  scattered  into  flight 
The  Stars  before  him  from  the  Field  of  Night, 

Drives  Night  along  with  them  from  Heav'n,  and  strikes 
The  Sultan's  Turret  with  a  Shaft  of  Light." 

The  second  quatrain  appealed  to  him  less ;  the  allusions 
in  that  and  those  immediately  following  were  too  recondite 
for  him,  and  so  was  the  sixth,  commencing  with  "And 
David's  Lips  are  lock't,"  which  had  seemed  so  full  of  mean- 
ing when  spoken  by  Mr.  Macarthy  yesterday;  but  the  sev- 
enth clear  enough : 

"Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  Fire  of  Spring 
Your  Winter  Garment  of  Repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  nutter— and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing." 

And  only  too  clear  was  the  eighth : 

"Whether  at  Naishapur  or  Babylon, 

Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run, 

The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by  drop, 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one." 
170 


ADAM  IS  ADVISED  TO  READ  THE  BIBLE     171 

Too  clear  was  the  eighth.  The  book  still  in  his  hand, 
Adam's  eyes  wandered  off  the  page  to  see  again  the  funeral 
that  had  wended  its  way  along  the  North  Circular  Road 
into  his  vision  yesterday.  It  seemed  to  him  uncanny  that 
he,  who  had  so  often  thought  of  Caroline  Brady  as  being 
dead,  should  see  her  at  last,  for  the  first  time  that  he  was 
sure  of  her,  going  to  the  funeral  of  someone  else.  .  .  .  And 
that  someone  probably  a  near  relative — he  recalled  the 
smallness  of  the  coffin — probably  a  brother  or  a  sister.  .  .  - 
And  some  day  surely  his  own  coffin  would  be  carrying  him 
to  Glasnevin.  He  flung  down  the  book.  Nonsense !  What- 
ever was  going  to  happen  to  him,  he  simply  would  not  sub- 
mit to  being  carried  in  a  coffin  to  Glasnevin  or  any  other 
cemetery.  Better,  like  that  baronet,  to  meet  his  death 
amidst  the  pride  of  life  and  be  scattered  to  the  four  winds. 
.  .  .  And  yet,  if  Mr.  Macarthy  himself  had  died  of  that 
cold  he  had,  how  could  he  prevent  himself  being  boxed  away 
and  carted  off  to  some  cemetery  or  other  ? 

Later  in  the  day  he  put  the  question  to  his  guardian, 
frankly,  in  schoolboy  style. 

"If  Dr.  Ahern  hadn't  cured  you  of  that  cold,  and  you'd 
died,"  he  put  it  to  him,  "what  would  you  have  done  to 
prevent  yourself  being  buried?"  When  the  words  were 
spoken,  he  thought  them  a  little  harshly  expressed,  and 
would  have  apologized  for  them. 

But  Mr.  Macarthy  accepted  them  in  the  spirit  in  which 
they  were  offered.  "If  I'd  died,"  said  he,  "I  should  have 
done  nothing,  but  my  executor  would  have  seen,  I  trust, 
that  my  body  was  burnt." 

"Oh,"  said  Adam,  "burnt.  ...  In  a  fire?" 

"Not  exactly  in  a  fire,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "but  in  an 
arrangement  heated  by  fire  called  a  crematorium." 

"Oh,"  Adam  repeated,  "a  crematorium;  I  know.  That's 
what  you  call  being  cremated."  Mr.  Macarthy  bowed  his 
head  in  acknowledgment  of  the  truth  of  this  observation, 


172  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

and  Adam,  his  mind  traveling  fast,  asked:  "Where  can  I 
be  cremated?" 

"There  is  no  place  handy,"  Mr.  Macarthy  confessed.  "I 
take  it  you  are  in  no  hurry  ?" 

"No,  no,  not  at  all,"  Adam  assured  him.  "I'd  as  soon  as 
not  live  for  ever." 

Mr.  Macarthy  shook  his  head.  "No,  Adam,  you  would 
not;  a  time  would  come  when  you  would  pray  and  long  for 
death." 

Adam  was  sure  that  Mr.  Macarthy  was  wrong  on  this 
point,  but  he  was  too  polite  to  say  so.  "The  Holy  Fathers 
lived  to  be  very  old,"  he  said. 

"Much  too  old,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

"Do  you  believe  they  did  really?"  Adam  asked  inconse- 
quently. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

"Why,"  said  Adam,  "is  everyone  younger  in  the  New 
Testament  than  in  the  Old?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  answered  question  with  question.  "Why  is 
everything  different  in  the  New  Testament  from  the  Old?" 

Adam  answered  readily :  "Because  the  Old  Testament 
was  written  by  Jews  and  the  New  Testament  by  Christians." 

"And  what  is  the  difference,"  Mr.  Macarthy  put  it  to 
him,  "between  a  Christian  and  a  Jew?" 

Adam  was  on  the  point  of  replying  to  this  with  equal 
readiness  when  he  realized  that  he  did  not  know  the  answer ; 
so  he  said:  "There  is  a  difference  between  them,  isn't 
there?" 

"There  would  seem  to  be,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "if  there 
is  a  difference  between  the  Old  Testament  and  the  New." 

Adam  reflected  on  this  for  a  long  time,  until  his  mind 
wandered  back  to  his  early  question,  "Where  could  I  get 
cremated?"  Then,  recalling  that  he  had  had  an  answer  to 
this  which  was  not  very  satisfactory,  he  asked:  "Where 
were  you  thinking  of  getting  cremated?" 


ADAM  IS  ADVISED  TO  READ  THE  BIBLE     173 

"It  would  have  been  a  toss-up,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  "be- 
tween Woking  and  Golders  Green." 

"That  would  be  in  England,"  said  Adam,  jealously. 

Mr.  Macarthy  bowed  apologetically.  "The  nearest  place 
where  I  can  have  it  done,"  said  he. 

"Can't  you  be  cremated  in  Ireland?"  Adam  asked. 

"Not  by  any  recognized  scientific  process,"  Mr.  Macarthy 
said. 

Adam  reflected  a  little  while,  and  then  broke  forth  again. 
"You'll  excuse  me  saying  it,  sir,  won't  you?"  he  asked,  "but 
it  sometimes  seems  to  me,  from  the  way  you  say  things, 
that  you  don't  think  much  of  Ireland?" 

Their  conversation  was  taking  place  in  the  sitting-room 
at  Mountjoy  Square,  and  Mr.  Macarthy,  his  back  turned  to 
Adam,  appeared  to  be  looking  for  a  book.  He  wheeled 
round  and  came  over  to  him,  as  one  perplexed  by  a  fresh 
proposition.  "Don't  I,"  said  he,  rather  distractedly  for  him, 
"Don't  I  seem  to  think  much  of  Ireland  ?  That's  odd."  He 
added,  as  one  who  offers  an  apology :  "It  seems  to  me  that, 
directly  or  indirectly,  I  am  thinking  of  Ireland  all  the  time." 

Adam  said :  "I  meant  to  say  that  you  didn't  think  Ireland 
was  up  to  much." 

"It's  not  up  to  much  in  the  matter  of  funeral  arrange- 
ments," Mr.  Macarthy  said,  and  immediately  corrected  him- 
self :  "At  least,  it's  first  rate  on  the  old-fashioned  side.  .  .  . 
If  I  wanted  to  get  buried  I  can't  imagine  anything  pleasanter 
in  the  way  of  a  burial-place  than,  say,  a  corner  of  Kilcrea 
Abbey." 

"Where's  that?"  Adam  promptly  asked. 

"Between  Cork  and  Macroom,  in  my  own  Muskerry,"  Mr. 
Macarthy  said,  with  something  that  seemed  to  Adam  almost 
to  approach  sentiment.  "It's  just  the  ruin  of  a  Franciscan 
Abbey,  built,  I  suppose,  about  a  generation  before  Poyning's 
Act.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Poyning's  Act?" 

"1492,"  said  Adam,  with  a  chirp  of  self -approbation.    He 


174  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

did  not  add  that  that  was  all  he  knew,  or  very  nearly. 
Things  that  happened  before  his  own  time  were  of  scanty 
interest.  "Why,"  said  he,  "would  you  like  to  be  buried  in 
that  Abbey?" 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  be  buried  there,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said, 
"but  if  I  had  to  be  buried  I'd  prefer  that  to  a  necropolis." 

"What's  a  necropolis?"  Adam  asked. 

"Haven't  you  enough  Greek  to  realize  that  it  means  a  city 
of  the  dead,  or,  in  other  words,  a  sort  of  municipality  of 
corpses  crowded  together  in  rotten  streets  ?"  His  face  wore 
an  expression  of  disgust. 

Adam  shuddered.    "I  suppose  Glasnevin  is  a  necropolis?" 

"More  or  less,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "but  not  a  bad  ex- 
ample of  one." 

"There  are  worse,  necropolises  ?"  Adam  put  this  question 
with  difficulty. 

"Decidedly  worse,"  Mr.  Macarthy  assured  him.  "At 
Glasgow,  for  example."  He  broke  off.  "Everything  in 
Scotland  is  either  worse  or  better  than  anywhere  else." 

Adam  questioned  gloomily:  "I  suppose  if  you're  dead  it 
doesn't  hurt  to  be  burnt?"  He  saw  his  guardian  smiling  in 
spite  of  himself.  "I  don't,  of  course,  mean  in  hell,"  he  ex- 
plained :  "that  would  hurt,  of  course,  if  you  were  dead  or 
alive." 

Mr.  Macarthy  said  gravely :  "It  is  agreed  that  to  be  burnt 
alive  hurts.  I  have  no  information  as  to  what  it  feels  like 
when  you're  dead." 

"D'you  mean  the  fire  of  hell,  now,"  Adam  asked,  "or 
what?" 

"Any  old  fire,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  which  Adam  recog- 
nized as  a  form  of  speech  terminating  an  interrogation. 

Yet  he  could  not  resist  one  question  more.  "Please,"  he 
said,  with  a  note  of  appeal  in  his  voice,  "d'you  think  that 
baronet  is  in  hell?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  looked  grave.    "If  you  mean  by  that  do  I 


ADAM  IS  ADVISED  TO  READ  THE  BIBLE     175 

think  that  David  Byron-Quinn  is  being  tossed  from  a  red- 
hot  gridiron  into  an  ice-chest  and  back  again,  or  being  put 
to  some  other  form  of  imbecile  torment,  1  do  not.  Hell,  in 
that  sense  of  the  word,  is  too  obviously  the  conception  of 
vulgar  and  paltry  minds  to  appeal  to  anything  but  my  sense 
of  the  ridiculous,  but  whether  the  mind  of  David  Byron- 
Quinn  may  still  be  suffering  in  some  way  to  which  any  tor- 
ment his  worst  enemies  could  devise  for  his  body  would 
appear  to  him  a  mere  jest,  is  a  question  to  which  I  do  not 
know  the  answer.  Philosophically  I  see  no  probability  of  it, 
but  my  imagination  admits  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing." 

Adam  thought  for  a  long  while,  and  then  asked  in  a  rather 
hushed  voice :  "What  could  he  have  done  that  would  call  for 
such  a  terrible  punishment  as  that?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  was  slow  in  replying,  and  he  glanced  again 
at  his  copy  of  the  baronet's  verses  before  he  answered :  "He 
seems  to  me  to  accuse  himself  in  his  last  poem  of  one  of 
the  greatest  of  all  crimes." 

Adam's  voice  trembled:  "I — I  didn't  understand  that," 
he  murmured.  "What  was  the  crime?" 

There  was  a  menacing  thunder  in  his  guardian's  answer 
that  echoed  through  Adam's  mind  all  the  days  of  his  life 
as  no  inhibition  spoken  from  the  pulpit  or  in  the  confes- 
sional echoed  there:  "He  begot  a  child  in  lust." 

Adam  sat  still  with  stunned  and  horrified  ears.  The  word 
"lust"  spoken  as  a  real  word  was  strange  to  him:  he  had 
read  it  time  and  again  in  his  books,  but  he  did  not  remem- 
ber to  have  heard  it.  In  the  confessional  it  had  been  called 
"impurity".  ...  He  understood  his  guardian  to  convey  that 
the  great  sin  committed  by  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn  was  that 
by  some  outrageous  act  of  impurity  he  had  begotten  a  child. 
...  A  child  begotten  in  impurity  was — he  looked  up  at  his 
guardian :  "You  mean,"  said  he,  "that  the  baronet  was  the 
father  of  a  bastard?" 

The  rage  had  gone  out  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  eyes,  but  his 


i76  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

voice  was  harsh  and  vindictive :  "I  mean  worse  than  that," 
said  he.  "Perhaps  on  balance  the  world  owes  a  debt  of 
gratitude  to  those  who  have  brought  bastards  into  it." 

"But  isn't  it  very  wrong?"  said  Adam.    "Isn't  it  a  sin?" 

"The  historical  answer  to  that,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said 
thoughtfully,  "would  appear  to  be  that  its  being  right  or 
wrong  depends  upon  place  and  time.  .  .  .  You  know  that 
text  from  St.  Matthew  that  hangs  in  my  bedroom?"  As 
Adam  looked  at  him  blankly  he  said :  "I  see  you  don't." 

"D'you  mean  in  Greek?"  Adam  said,  "Over  the  mantel- 
piece? I  remember  puzzling  over  it,  but  I'd  no  idea  what 
it  meant."  He  added  frankly :  "I  didn't  even  know  it  was 
the  Bible." 

Mr.  Macarthy  paused  as  though  he  were  making  up  his 
mind  whether  to  enlighten  Adam  or  not.  At  last  he  said 
simply :  "It  is  from  the  first  chapter  of  St.  Matthew,  giving 
that  apostle's  version  of  the  genealogy  of  Christ  which  is 
accepted  as  canonical  by  all  Christianity.  It  is  the  sixth 
verse,  and  in  English  runs  thus:  'And  Jesse  begat  David 
the  king;  and  David  the  king  begat  Solomon  of  her  that  had 
been  the  wife  of  Unas.' "  He  looked  straight  at  Adam, 
"You  know  the  story  of  David  and  the  wife  of  Unas?" 

Adam  confessed  that  he  did  not,  and  as  his  guardian 
briefly  and  reticently  told  it  to  him  his  golden  vision  of  a 
young  David  valiantly  confronting  Goliath,  a  transcendent 
Jack  the  Giant  Killer,  was  rendered  down  into  a  base  picture 
of  a  crime  for  the  Police  News.  He  beat  Mr.  Macarthy's 
table  with  his  young  fists  in  his  rage  at  the  lecherous  king's 
perfidy  and  cried  with  tears  of  vengeance  for  the  murdered 
soldier  in  his  eyes :  "I  hope  David  is  burning  in  hell  for 
doing  the  like  of  that !" 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  grimly,  and  in  a  soft  but  clear  voice 
said :  "If  David  hadn't  done  the  like  of  that,  does  it  occur 
to  you  that  St.  Matthew  would  have  had  nothing  to  write 
about?" 


ADAM  IS  ADVISED  TO  READ  THE  BIBLE     177 

Adam  looked  up  at  him  in  blank  amazement.  "Go  on!" 
said  he. 

To  Adam's  callow  imagination  Mr.  Macarthy  appeared  to 
be  posing  the  suggestion  that  if  David  had  not  caught  Bath- 
sheba  in  a  state  of  undress  there  would  have  been  no  such 
thing  as  Christianity.  And  Mr.  Macarthy,  glancing  in  his 
eyes,  saw  that  idea  latent  in  them.  He  went  on  to  say :  "I 
think  it  a  pity  that  you  do  not  read  the  Bible  for  yourself. 
I  would  advise  you  to  read  it  and  to  ask  Father  Steele,  or 
whoever  your  confessor  may  be,  to  tell  you  what  he  under- 
stands from  such  passages  as  may  puzzle  you."  He  seemed 
to  think  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  again:  "Tell  Father 
Steele  what  I  said  to  you ;  it  may  be  that  he  will  forbid  you 
to  read  the  Bible,  but  I  don't  think  that  he  will  try  con- 
sciously to  tell  you  any  lies  about  it." 

"Of  course  he  wouldn't  tell  me  lies !"  said  Adam  indig- 
nantly. 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  at  him  and  answered  mildly:  "I'm 
glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  that  is  my  own  feeling  about 
him."  He  added :  "But  it  would  not  surprise  me  if  he  for- 
bade you  to  read  it." 

"Has  he  any  right  to  forbid  me?"  Adam  asked. 

"That  is  a  question  for  your  conscience,"  Mr.  Macarthy 
declared. 

"But,"  said  Adam  frankly,  "isn't  it  he  who  tells  me  what 
ought  to  be  against  my  conscience  ?" 

"Is  it?"  Mr.  Macarthy  simply  answered,  "I  didn't  know 
that." 

Adam  was  silent  a  moment.  "After  all  I'm  not  sure  my- 
self," he  said  at  last. 

"Sooner  or  later,"  Mr.  Macarthy  advised  him,  "you  will 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  best  keeper  of  your  con- 
science is  yourself."  He  looked  at  Adam  wistfully :  "Mind 
you,  I  am  far  from  saying  that  you  are  necessarily  old 
enough  to  take  complete  charge  of  it  already.  ...  I  hon- 


178  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

estly  think  that  for  the  present  you  would  do  well  to  allow 
Father  Steele  to  help  you." 

"At  Clongowes,"  Adam  volunteered,  "I  went  to  confes- 
sion to  Father  Bernard  James."  As  his  guardian  refrained 
from  any  comment  he  put  the  question  to  him  directly :  "Do 
you  think  would  he  be  all  right  ?" 

"Father  Bernard  James,"  Mr.  Macarthy  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  "who  am  I  to  be  judge?  I  should  think  he  was  a 
decent  man,  and  so  far  as  I  know  him  I  like  him  well  enough. 
If  you  are  content  with  him  I  would  not  come  between  you, 
but  I  think  I  can  do  no  harm  in  saying  that  I  believe  him 
to  be  intellectually  and  therefore  morally,"  he  repeated : 
"yes,  therefore  morally,  inferior  to  Father  Steele.  But  re- 
member, I  do  not  ask  you  to  weigh  my  opinion  against  that 
of  either  of  them.  .  .  .  More  than  that,  I  wish  to  impress 
upon  you  that  if  I  have  spoken  severely  of  David  Byron- 
Quinn  you  must  not  understand  from  that  that  harsher  judg- 
ments might  not  in  my  own  opinion  be  passed  upon  myself." 


CHAPTER  XXII 
FATHER  STEELE'S  VICTORY 

WHEN  the  shops  reopened  after  Christmas,  Adam  betook 
himself  to  Graf  ton  Street,  and  from  the  same  authoritative 
bookseller  who  had  sold  him  his  copy  of  Keats  he  bought  a 
copy  of  the  Bible.  Remembering  his  misleading  advice  in 
the  world  of  poetry,  he  had  some  misgiving  as  to  whether 
the  Bible  with  which  he  provided  him  could  be  the  genuine 
article.  He  had  three  kinds,  he  mentioned  in  reply  to 
Adam's  inquiry:  a  Catholic,  a  Protestant,  and  a  Revised. 
Adam,  who  was  nothing  if  not  thorough,  would  have  liked 
to  purchase  all  three,  but  smooth-faced  commodity  bade  him 
to  be  content  with  one  at  a  time;  so  he  plumped  for  the 
Catholic,  and  carried  it  home,  notwithstanding  its  sober  and 
unattractive  appearance,  with  a  pride  which  forbade  him  to 
accept  of  a  paper  wrapping  for  it. 

But,  arrived  home,  he  found  it  dull  work  trying  to  read 
it:  the  Old  Testament  being  squashed  into  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  odd  pages  of  minute  print,  and  the  New  Testament 
into  a  couple  of  hundred.  He  turned  first  to  the  chapter 
from  St.  Matthew  which  had  provided  Mr.  Macarthy  with 
the  text  for  his  bedroom,  and  therein  he  read : 

"The  Genealogy  of  Christ:  He  is  conceived  and  born  of 
a  Virgin. 

The  Book  of  the  Generation  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  son  of 
David,  the  son  of  Abraham : 

2.  Abraham  begot  Isaac.     And  Isaac  begot  Jacob.     And 
Jacob  begot  Judas  and  his  brethren. 

3.  And  Judas  begot  Phares  and  Zara  of  Thamar.     And 
Phares  begot  Esron.    And  Esron  begot  Aram. 


i8o  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

4.  And  Aram  begot  Aminadab.     And  Aminadab  begot 
Naasson.    And  Naasson  begot  Salmon. 

5.  And  Salmon  begot  Booz  of  Rahab.     And  Booz  begot 
Obed  of  Ruth.    And  Obed  begot  Jesse. 

6.  And  Jesse  begot  David  the  king.    And  David  the  king 
begot  Solomon,  of  her  that  had  been  the  wife  of  Urias. 

7.  And   Solomon  begot   Roboam.    And    Roboam   begot 
Abia.    And  Abia  begot  Aza.  .  .  ." 

At  this  point  Adam  found  himself  yawning,  and,  incon- 
tinently thinking  of  the  House  that  Jack  Built,  ran  his  eye 
down  several  verses  until  he  came  to : 

16.  "And  Jacob  begot  Joseph  the  husband  of  Mary,  of 
whom  was  born  Jesus,  who  is  called  Christ. 

17.  So  all  the  generation,  from  Abraham  to  David,  are 
fourteen  generations.    And  from  David  to  the  transmigra- 
tion of  Babylon,  are  fourteen  generations,  and   from  the 
transmigration  of  Babylon  to  Christ,  are  fourteen  genera- 
tions. 

18.  Now  the  generation  of  Christ  was  in  this  wise.    When 
as  His  Mother  Mary  was  espoused  to  Joseph,  before  they 
came   together,   she   was    found   with  child,   of   the   Holy 
Ghost. 

19.  Whereupon  Joseph  her  husband,  being  a  just  man, 
and  not  willing  publicly  to  expose  her,  was  minded  to  put 
her  away  privately. 

20.  But  while  he  thought  on  these  things,  behold  the  Angel 
of  the  Lord  appeared  to  him  in  his  sleep,  saying:  Joseph, 
son  of  David,  fear  not  to  take  unto  thee  Mary  thy  wife,  for 
that  which  is  conceived  in  her  is  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

21.  And  she  shall  bring  forth  a  son:  and  thou  shalt  call 
his  name  Jesus.     For  He  shall  save  His  people  from  their 
sins. 

22.  Now  all  this  was  done  that  it  might  be  fulfilled  which 
the  Lord  spoke  by  the  prophet,  saying : 

23.  Behold  a  Virgin  shall  be  with  child,  and  shall  bring 


FATHER  STEELE'S  VICTORY  181 

forth  a  son,  and  they  shall  call  his  name  Emmanuel,  which 
being  interpreted  is,  God  with  us. 

24.  And  Joseph  rising  up  from  sleep,  did  as  the  Angel  of  . 
the  Lord  had  commanded  him,  and  took  unto  him  his  wife. 

25.  And  he  knew  her  not  till  she  brought  forth  her  first- 
born son:  and  he  called  his  name  Jesus." 

Appended  to  this  was  an  exegetical  foot-note  stating  that 
"Helvidius  and  other  heretics  most  impiously  infer  that  the 
Blessed  Virgin  Mary  had  other  children  besides  Christ." 
But  that  St.  Jerome  had  triumphantly  argued  to  the  con- 
trary. Adam  was  not  impressed  by  the  cogency  of  St. 
Jerome's  argument:  even  this  single  chapter  from  St.  Mat- 
thew made  an  entirely  different  impression  on  his  mind  than 
the  story  of  the  birth  of  Christ  which  he  had  perhaps  imag- 
ined for  himself  from  the  embryo  planted  in  his  youthful 
fancy  by  Father  Innocent  and  not  removed  by  the  Catechism. 
He  had  an  odd  feeling  that  the  Christ  presented  to  him  by 
Father  Innocent  was  the  real  one,  and  that  either  St. 
Matthew  was  misinformed  upon  the  subject,  or  else  that  in 
the  copy  of  the  Bible  which  that  pretentious  book-seller  had 
sold  him,  he  was  wrongly  reported. 

With  an  uneasy  feeling,  he  turned  back  to  the  title-page, 
and  found  that  the  Old  Testament  was  as  first  published  by 
the  English  College  at  Douay,  A.D.  1609,  and  the  New  Testa- 
ment as  first  published  by  the  English  College  at  Rheims, 
A.D.  1582.  That  they  should  have  been  produced  by  English 
colleges  anywhere  strengthened  his  suspicion  of  them.  .  .  . 
In  the  other  scale  was  the  assertion  that  the  whole  had  been 
revised  and  diligently  compared  with  the  Latin  Vulgate,  and 
published  by  the  approbation  of  a  Bishop  of  Down  and  Con- 
nor more  than  sixty  years  before;  also  there  was  a  letter 
of  his  Holiness  Pius  VI.  to  the  most  Reverend  Anthony 
Martini,  Archbishop  of  Florence,  congratulating  him  on  his 
translation  of  the  Bible  into  Italian,  and  remarking  that 
"At  a  time  that  a  vast  number  of  bad  books,  which  grossly 


t82  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

attacked  the  Catholic  religion,  are  circulated,  even  among 
the  unlearned,  to  the  great  destruction  of  souls,  you  judge 
exceedingly  well,  that  the  faithful  should  be  excited  to  the 
reading  of  the  Holy  Scriptures;  for  these  are  the  most 
abundant  sources,  which  ought  to  be  left  open  to  everyone, 
to  draw  from  them  purity  of  morals  and  of  doctrine,  to 
eradicate  the  errors  which  are  so  widely  disseminated  in 
those  corrupt  times,"  and  so  on.  So  it  seemed  to  Adam  that 
the  book  must  be  genuine  enough;  he  told  himself  that  he 
must  try  to  like  it,  and  turned  the  pages  in  hope  of  finding 
something  that  would  restore  to  him  the  Holy  Family,  with 
which  he  had  believed  himself  to  be  more  familiar  than  his 
own.  Chancing  on  the  information  that  St.  Luke  was  "By 
profession  a  physician;  and  some  ancient  writers  say,  that 
he  was  very  skilful  in  painting,"  he  started  to  read  him,  and 
was  better  held  by  his  narrative  than  by  Matthew's.  Until 
he  came  to  his  genealogical  table:  "And  Jesus  Himself  was 
beginning  about  the  age  of  thirty  years;  being  (as  it  was 
supposed)  the  son  of  Joseph,  who  was  of  Heli,  who  was  of 
Mathat,  who  was  of  Levi,  who  was  of  Melchi,  who  was  of 
Janne,  who  was  of  Joseph.  .  .  ." 

With  an  unaccountable  feeling  of  mystification,  Adam 
read  on  names  that  were  but  obscurely  familiar  until  the 
came  to  the  thirty-first  verse :  "Who  was  of  Melea,  who  was 
of  Menna,  who  was  of  Mathatha,  who  was  of  Nathan,  who 
was  of  David. 

32.  Who  was  of  Jesse,  who  was  of  Obed,  who  was  of 
Booz,  who  was  of  Salmon.  .  .  ." 

"Salmon,  Salmon,"  Adam  repeated  under  his  breath, 
"where  does  Solomon  come  in  ?"  and  his  mind  ran  feverishly 
up  and  down  the  page  to  find  the  name  of  David's  son  by 
her  who  had  been  the  wife  of  Urias.  Then  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  go  gray,  and  he  longed  with  an  intensity  as  great 
as  he  had  ever  felt  for  Father  Innocent  to  guide  him.  His 
instinct  told  him  that  all  the  learning  of  the  Jesuits  would 


FATHER  STEELE'S  VICTORY  183 

not  help  him:  he  almost  dreaded  the  wisdom  of  the  wise; 
he  felt  that  the  Christianity  of  Matthew  and  Luke  was 
spurious  compared  with  the  Christianity  of  Innocent. 

He  wished  he  had  not  wasted  money  on  this  book,  merely 
to  confuse  and  sadden  his  mind;  he  closed  it  and  put  it 
away  among  his  school  prizes  and  such  other  books  as  he 
was  not  likely  to  read  again,  or  had  never  ventured  to  read 
at  all.  He  was  standing  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
frowning  at  his  library,  when  the  bells  of  St.  George's 
Church  ringing  the  three  quarters  called  him  to  the  window 
to  look  at  that  edifice :  he  had  a  double  curiosity,  to  see  what 
the  time  was  and  to  see  the  church  itself ;  the  time  was  a 
quarter  to  three — in  another  hour  the  sun  would  have  set 
upon  one  more  day  of  his  life.  .  .  .  The  thoughts  that  had 
come  to  him  on  his  thirteenth  birthday  came  back,  some 
of  them,  in  a  graver,  more  insistent  form :  he  was  growing 
old:  he  was  almost  done  with  childhood:  he  was  on  the 
verge  of  manhood:  from  manhood  to  second  childhood  was 
but  a  step:  he  visualized  himself  as  an  old  man  of  fifty, 
possibly  even  more,  but  fifty  was  old  age,  and  he  had  trav- 
eled more  than  a  quarter  of  the  way  to  fifty.  .  .  .  Soon  he 
would  have  traveled  half,  soon  three  quarters,  soon  he  would 
be  at  his  journey's  end,  a  journey  along  roads  the  map  of 
which  he  had  lost.  .  .  .  Had  he  ever  possessed  it  ?  A  year 
ago  he  had  thought  it,  particularly  in  class  at  Belvedere, 
a  dreary  and  rather  futile  journey,  but  had  no  doubt  what- 
ever of  his  way  (if  only  Father  Tudor  would  suffer  him  to 
keep  on  his  way).  Since  then  the  journey  itself  had  become 
a  joy,  until  he  had  been  wakened  to-day  to  the  knowledge 
that  he  had  lost  all  sense  of  direction  and  almost  all  faith 
in  the  ability  of  anyone  to  give  it  back  to  him.  The  Bible 
was  supposed  by  him  to  be  the  road-book  of  the  Catholic's 
progress  through  this  vale  of  tears.  .  .  .  His  instinct  had 
always  repudiated  the  notion  of  its  being  a  vale  of  tears,  but 
the  phrase  came  back  to  him  now,  throwing  a  baleful  look 


i8.4  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

over  his  shoulder  at  the  shelf  where  his  new  acquisition  low- 
ered gloomily  back  upon  him:  he  deemed  that  meanly 
printed,  incomprehensible,  self-stultifying  epitome  of  gloom 
to  be  a  vade-mecum  to  the  Slough  of  Despond,  and,  turning 
his  gaze  upon  St.  George's  Church,  he  marveled  that  that 
pleasantly  graceful  tabernacle  should  have  been  built  by  men 
who  preferred  the  ugly  dreariness  and  unintelligibility  of 
the  Bible  to  the  agreeable  (on  the  whole,  agreeable)  romance 
the  Catholic  Fathers  had  grafted  on  it.  ...  Then  the  bells 
of  St.  George's  Church  rang  three,  and  Adam,  remembering 
in  what  circumstances  he  had  heard  them  ring  three  on  his 
last  day  at  Belvedere,  wondered  whether,  after  all,  the 
Protestant  reading  of  Christianity  could  produce  anything 
more  un-Christian  than  Father  Tudor. 

Suddenly  he  turned  from  the  window,  seized  his  cap,  and, 
forgetful  of  his  overcoat,  ran  downstairs,  banged  the  door 
behind  him,  flung  round  the  corner  into  Temple  Street,  and 
round  again  into  Gardiner's  Place,  and,  still  running,  into 
Gardiner  Street,  up  the  steps  into  the  church.  There  he 
knelt  down  and  prayed.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  rather  thought  and 
imagined  than  prayed,  but,  anyhow,  he  communed  with  that 
something  of  which  every  man  is  conscious  as  being  within 
himself  and  yet  not  of  himself,  credibly  his  interpreter  to 
the  Absolute,  which  Adam  visualized  as  a  quintessential 
Father  Innocent.  At  such  a  moment  as  this  the  beatified  see 
visions,  but  Adam  was  not  of  them.  Presently  he  rose  and, 
outwardly  calm,  passed  up  into  the  sanctuary,  and  tried  the 
handle  of  one  of  the  doors,  built  flush  with  the  masonry, 
and  so  not  noticeable  to  all,  which  give  upon  the  presbytery 
gallery.  He  closed  it  behind  him,  and  turned  to  see  a  priestly 
form  pass  down  the  gallery  in  the  direction  of  the  hall  door. 
The  figure  carried  a  tall  hat  and  an  umbrella,  and  moved 
with  the  gait  of  a  young  body  prematurely  aged:  Adam 
recognized  Father  Steele,  and  sprang  forward  to  overtake 
him  ere  he  could  reach  the  hall  door. 


FATHER  STEELE'S  VICTORY  185 

The  clatter  of  heavily  booted  young  feet  in  that  quiet 
place  startled  the  priest  so  that  he  wheeled  round  to  see  by 
whom  he  was  pursued.  He  did  not  at  once  recognize  the 
figure  of  the  boy  rushing  headlong  towards  him. 

"Father  Ignatius !"  cried  Adam  frantically,  "Father  Igna- 
tius Steele,  sir:  may  I  just  ask  you  a  question?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Father  Ignatius,  glancing  at  his  watch, 
"but  you  must  be  quick;  what  is  it?" 

Adam  was  quick,  quicker  than  Father  Steele  anticipated. 
"Is  it  possible  to  prove,"  he  cried,  "that  Jesus  Christ  ever 
really  existed?" 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  Father  Steele,  much  taken  aback  and  very 
red,  "Of  course  it  is,  of  course."  His  watch  slipped  back 
into  his  pocket  and  Time  was  forgotten.  "Come  in  here," 
he  said,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  Adam 
made  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  power  and  the  glory 
of  the  Jesuits.  It  looked  precisely  the  same  as  when  Adam 
saw  it  first,  and  the  eyes  of  the  holy  men  who  are  with  God 
focused  on  him  as  sharply  as  ever.  Father  Ignatius  laid  his 
hat  on  the  table,  also  he  laid  there  his  umbrella.  Then  he 
said:  "Sit  down,"  but  he  himself  did  not  sit  down.  It 
seemed  to  Adam  that  before  he  spoke  again  he  said  a  prayer, 
then  his  expression,  which  had  passed  from  the  startled  and 
indignant  to  the  merely  perplexed,  grew  gentle  and  kindly 
and  sweetly  reasonable  again.  At  last  he  spoke:  "Perhaps 
I  answered  you  too  quickly  just  now,"  he  said,  "when  I  told 
you  that  of  course  the  reality  of  the  existence  of  Christ  can 
be  proved.  I  believe  that  it  can  be  proved,  but,  to  be  per- 
fectly frank,  I  cannot  prove  it  even  to  myself."  He  looked 
at  Adam  :  "Do  you  hear  that  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Adam,  wondering  what  would  follow  this 
appalling  admission. 

"Now,  hear  this,"  said  Father  Steele:  "with  me  it  is 
purely  a  matter  of  faith  that  Christ  really  existed,  true  man 
and  true  God,  but  that  faith  in  me  is  so  strong  that  I  should 


i86  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

account  it  the  greatest  happiness  that  could  be  afforded  me 
that  I  might  perish  in  its  defense."  He  smiled.  "Don't 
think  I  mean  as  a  crusader  or  anything  romantic,  Adam ;  I 
only  mean  that  I  should  think  myself  most  happy  to  suffer 
as  St.  Stephen  did,  whose  feast,  you  know,  was  yesterday. 
You  know  how  he  died?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Adam  glibly:  "he  was  stoned  to  death," 
and  his  mind  ran  instantly  to  a  question :  "Is  it  a  fact  that 
St.  Paul  helped  to  stone  him?" 

Father  Steele  waved  an  amiable  hand :  "Don't  ask  me  for 
facts,  Adam,"  he  protested ;  "I  am  concerned  only  with  ques- 
tions of  faith;  if  you  have  nothing  further  to  put  to  me  con- 
cerning questions  of  faith,  I  must  go."  He  took  up  his  hat 
and  umbrella. 

Adam  rose.  "I  think  that's  all,  sir,"  he  submitted.  Then 
burst  out:  "I'm  glad  you  feel  like  that  about  Jesus;  that's 
just  how  I  feel  myself." 

Father  Steele  patted  him  affectionately  on  the  shoulder. 
"How  charming,  my  dear  boy,  how  delightful.  That  is  the 
real  feeling  to  have,  I  am  convinced."  And  so  they  parted, 
well  pleased  with  one  another. 

Father  Steele  walked  with  Adam  as  far  as  the  corner  of 
Temple  Street,  but  tactfully  spoke  only  of  secular  things. 
His  mind  was  full  of  the  thought  of  Labor  troubles,  and 
he  said  the  coming  year  was  full  of  the  presage  of  distress. 
"Your  sympathy,  like  mine,"  said  he,  "will  be  with  the  poor 
people,  but  I  am  afraid  that,  morally,  they  are  not  always 
in  the  right." 

Well  as  Adam  liked  him,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  answer 
stoutly:  "It's  hard  to  be  always  in  the  right  if  you're  poor." 

Father  Steele  looked  at  him  with  interest.  "Only  too 
true,"  said  he.  "In  the  world  we  know,  this  world,  ruled, 
if  I  may  say  so  without  offense,  by  Protestants,  the  poor 
have  all  the  punishments  of  sin,  but  few,  if  any,  of  the  re- 
wards of  virtue ;  but  I  fear  I  am  right  in  saying  that  many 


FATHER  STEELE'S  VICTORY  187 

of  the  miseries  of  the  poor  are  brought  about  by  the  poor 
themselves.  I  don't  mean  through  drink  or  laziness  or  even 
unthrift,  for  certainly  the  poor  are  not  so  luxurious  nor  so 
lazy  nor  so  unthrifty  as  the  rich,  but  I  mean  that  in  their 
efforts  to  better  their  condition  they  fall  into  excesses  which 
ultimately  recoil  upon  themselves.  For  instance,  these 
strikes :  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  evil  of  the  strike  falls 
not  on  the  employer  but  on  the  employed." 

"Then  why  do  they  strike?"  Adam  asked  point  blank. 
"Why  indeed?"  sighed  Father  Steele;  "sometimes,  no 
doubt,  reasonably  and  legitimately ;  more  often,  perhaps,  be- 
cause the  memory  of  a  legitimate  victory  gives  the  hope  of 
another  less  legitimate;  but  I  believe  I  am  right  in  saying 
that,  take  the  victories  with  the  defeats,  strikes  mean  a  dead 
loss  to  everyone." 

"Then  you  think,  sir,"  said  Adam,  "there  ought  to  be  no 
strikes?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Father  Steele,  "there  ought  to  be  no 
strikes."  But,  as  they  stopped  at  the  corner  of  Temple 
Street  to  say  good-by,  he  added :  "That  is  not  to  say  that  I 
am  blaming  the  men,  even  for  such  strikes  as  seem  to  be 
provoked  entirely  by  them.  Whether,  humanly  speaking, 
they  be  sinning  or  sinned  against,  my  sympathy,  and,  I  hope, 
your  sympathy,  will  be  always  with  the  poor." 

"But  supposing,"  Adam  returned,  "the  poor  should  be  in 
the  wrong?    Why  should  one  sympathize  with  them  then?" 
"Because,"  said  Father  Steele,  "they  have  the  most  need 
of  it." 

Something  in  his  tone  held  Adam,  cap  in  hand,  gazing 
wistfully  after  him  as  he  passed  on  down  Denmark  Street. 
Then  a  sneeze  recalled  the  boy  to  the  discovery  that  he  was 
standing  in  the  cold  without  an  overcoat,  and  he  ran  home 
to  his  cozy  fire. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
OF  FLIGHT  AND  A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS 

THE  third  week  of  the  New  Year  found  Adam  back  at 
Clongowes.  He  was  not  the  same  Adam  who  had  come 
there  as  a  new  boy  four  months  before:  nor  was  he  even 
the  Adam  who  had  sat  beside  Father  Bernard  James  on  the 
car  bowling  down  to  Sallins  Station  two  days  before  Christ- 
mas. He  had  returned  to  Clongowes  with  an  odd  mingling 
of  hope  and  fear :  all  that  part  of  him  that  was  reasonable 
told  him  that  he  was  going  to  do  well  this  term  at  school; 
the  imagination  attached  to  his  reason  showed  him  his  name 
bulking  proudly  in  the  Intermediate  reports,  his  portrait 
blazoned  in  The  Clongownian  as  an  exhibitioner,  and 
the  Lord  knows  what  besides.  .  .  .  Yet  his  instinct  was  full 
of  dread;  he  had  no  idea  of  what  he  was  afraid,  but  afraid 
he  was.  .  .  .  This  grew.  During  the  day  time,  and  more 
particularly  when  in  class,  he  was  happy  enough;  but  with 
the  falling  off  of  night  came  apprehension;  each  happy  day 
ended  with  the  anticipation  of  a  disastrous  to-morrow. 

He  struggled  with  this  feeling,  and  one  night,  several 
weeks  since  his  return  to  school,  convinced  himself  that  he 
had  got  the  better  of  it;  for  the  most  careful  examination 
of  his  position  showed  to  him  no  opening  through  which  he 
could  be  assailed :  at  Clongowes,  so  far  as  he  was  aware,  he 
had  no  enemy :  certainly  none  among  the  masters,  and  none 
avowedly  among  the  boys.  In  Dublin  he  had  in  his  day 
memories  only  friends,  and  of  their  friendship  he  felt  surer 
than  ever.  That  night  he  slept  well,  and  in  the  morning 
cheerily  arose.  He  had  taken  to  washing  himself  carefully 

188 


OF  FLIGHT  AND  A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS    189 

again,  and  the  other  boys  had  passed  on  down  to  the  chapel 
before  he  left  the  dormitory.  He  descended  alone :  it  was 
a  cold,  raw  morning,  and  all  was  starkly  gray  in  the  gas- 
light. .  .  .  He  had  a  feeling,  suddenly,  that  fear  was  wait- 
ing for  him  somewhere  in  the  depth  below:  foolish,  unac- 
countable fear.  At  the  bottom  of  the  staircase  he  heard  it 
pacing  towards  him,  as  though  coming  up  the  Lower  Line 
gallery.  He  stopped  to  listen;  yes,  he  surely  heard  foot- 
steps .  .  .  Obscurely  familiar  footsteps ;  they  came  on  and 
on,  and  then,  as  he  expected  them  to  mount  and  meet  him, 
they  paused  by  the  Higher  Line  Library  and  again  retreated. 

Pulling  himself  together,  he  swung  round  past  the  library 
door  and  hurried  down  to  the  gallery ;  in  front  of  him  he 
saw  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  terrified  by  one  of 
the  priests,  patrolling  the  gallery  between  him  and  the 
chapel,  presumably  reading  his  office.  Knowing  himself  to 
be  late  for  prayers,  Adam  hurried  on  behind  him,  on  tiptoe, 
not  to  attract  his  attention.  But  as  he  hastened  the  priest 
slackened  his  pace,  perhaps  purposely  stepped  short,  and, 
just  as  Adam  thought  to  slip  in  at  the  chapel  door  behind 
him,  swung  round  and  stopped  him  with  an  outstretched 
arm,  while  a  terrible  voice  boomed:  "What's  this?  What's 
this?  Who  can  this  be?  Ah,  ha!  Ah,  ha!  So  we  meet 
again." 

A  sweat  broke  out  on  Adam's  brow.  He  did  not  answer ; 
for  he  thought  himself  dreaming.  .  .  .  He  must  be  still  in 
bed  dreaming  what  he  often  dreamt,  that  Father  Tudor  had 
caught  him  in  his  clutches  once  again.  He  stared  at  the 
white  cuff,  the  red  and  hairy  hand;  he  knew  them  so  well; 
he  saw  them  so  often  in  his  dreams.  .  .  . 

Again  the  voice  boomed  in  his  ear :  "What's  this  ?  What's 
this?  .  .  .  Why  don't  you  answer  me?" 

In  all  innocence  he  gave  the  answer  most  fortunate  for 
himself :  "I  feel  sick." 

Father  Tudor 's  grasp  not  so  much  released  as  rejected 


ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

him,  and  his  despotic  voice  boomed :  "Oh  ...  I  will  see 
you  later." 

Without  answer,  Adam  passed  on  into  the  chapel.  He 
was  not  so  sick  but  to  have  it  clearly  in  his  mind  that  not 
of  his  own  free  will  would  he  see  Father  Tudor  again.  If 
Father  Tudor  was  come  to  Clongowes,  he  must  go.  Now 
he  understood  the  premonition  of  evil  which  had  haunted 
him  day  and  night.  .  .  .  He  did  not  pray  that  morning  in 
chapel:  he  planned. 

Why  Father  Tudor  was  there  he  did  not  ask  himself ;  the 
thought  that  it  might  be  a  flying  visit  never  entered  his 
head.  It  was  enough  for  Adam  that  he  was  there  and  that 
he  had  heard  once  again  his  voice  addressing  him  as  one  in 
authority,  one  of  that  cohort  of  the  despicably  hateful  who 
had,  or  pretended  to  have,  the  Castle  behind  them.  .  .  .  He 
felt  that  even  if  Mr.  Macarthy  and  all  his  friends  had  sped 
to  his  rescue  and  driven  this  enemy  headlong  in  flight,  still 
there  could  be  no  happiness  more  for  him,  no  possible  life 
at  all,  within  the  walls  that  had  to-day  been  polluted  by  his 
presence.  .  .  .  Mr.  Macarthy  had  won  from  him  the  under- 
taking to  forgive  this  man,  and  he  had  forgiven  him :  he 
wished  him  no  evil,  his  feeling  for  him  was  not  one  of  hate, 
but  the  dread  and  loathing  aroused  by  a  foul  and  terrible 
beast,  the  beast  that,  in  the  Catholic  religion,  symbolizes  all 
evil,  that  is  imaged  as  trodden  upon  by  the  conquering  feet 
of  her  who  carried  God  in  her  womb :  the  snake.  The  brain 
that  burnt  behind  Adam's  sweating  temples  planned  no 
hurt  to  Father  Tudor,  but  only  the  means  to  escape,  he 
cared  not  whither,  provided  it  should  be  where  he  would 
never  fear  that  bestial  menace  again. 

Leaving  the  chapel  with  the  other  boys,  he  fell  out  of  his 
place  in  the  file  ascending  to  the  study,  as  one  who  has  for- 
gotten something,  and  returned  to  it  unquestioned.  There 
he  knelt  down  before  the  statue  of  the  Virgin  and  said  the 
prayer  of  St.  Bernard;  then,  as  it  seemed  to  himself,  quite 


OF  FLIGHT  AND  A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS     191 

calmly,  he  quitted  the  chapel  and  passed  into  the  now  empty 
gallery,  put  on  his  cap  and  a  muffler,  and  tried  the  play- 
ground door  in  the  Third  Line  gallery ;  but  failed  to  open  it. 
But  his  mind  was  quite  clear :  he  was  not  to  be  baffled. 
Taking  off  his  cap  and  muffler,  he  walked  back  quietly  in 
the  direction  of  the  class-rooms  and  dormitories,  and,  still 
meeting  no  one,  tried  the  door  towards  the  infirmary.  That, 
too,  was  locked,  but  a  class-room  door  close  by  was  open, 
and  in  that  class-room  one  window  was  unfastened.  .  .  . 
In  a  moment  he  was  out  in  the  grounds,  trotting  softly 
tli rough  the  misty  dawn  towards  the  bicycle  house,  puzzling 
his  brains  how  he  should  find  means  to  burgle  it.  But  For- 
tune favored  him ;  for  the  lock,  when  examined,  proved  to 
be  un-shot.  In  the  gloom  it  was  hard  to  get  out  his  bicycle, 
but,  silently  and  with  patience,  he  disentangled  it,  silently 
and  with  patience  he  steered  it  through  and  lifted  it  over 
all  obstacles  between  him  and  the  avenue ;  and  then  at  last, 
not  waiting  to  blow  up  the  tyres,  he  clambered  into  his 
saddle  and  swung  off  swiftly  down  the  byway  to  the  road. 
Within  twenty  minutes  from  the  moment  of  leaving  the 
chapel,  the  trees  had  swallowed  him  from  the  sight  of  any 
watcher  at  Clongowes.  He  was  not  very  sure  of  his  way, 
but  that  it  was  north  and  east ;  and  so,  with  a  warm  wind 
sweeping  him  on,  he  flew  to  meet  the  sun.  .  .  .  To  plunge, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  into  the  arms  of  Liberty. 

Without  a  map,  and  unwilling  to  ask  his  way,  he  tacked 
up  and  down  upon  a  wavering  course  between  the  baronies 
of  North  Salt  and  South,  conscious  of  nothing  so  much  as 
the  joy  of  being  free,  of  leaving  behind  him  the  only 
tyranny  before  which  he  had  quailed.  It  had  been  a  hard, 
cold  night,  and  there  was  frost  on  the  meadows  and  hedge- 
rows, even  ice  here  and  there  on  those  quiet  roads  he  was 
the  first  that  day  to  traverse ;  but  the  south-west  wind  that 
followed  him  was  already  moistening  the  earth ;  and  the 
sun,  within  a  week  of  entering  Aries,  by  eight  o'clock  was 


I92  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

high  enough  above  the  world  to  warm  it.  Somewhere  a 
lark  was  singing,  and  Adam  felt  himself  in  harmony  with 
the  birds  and  the  calves  and  the  lambs  and  all  the  other 
young  things  that,  unthinking  of  the  night  so  close  upon 
them,  welcomed  the  morn.  Once  he  sat  down  to  rest  beside 
a  stream,  charmed  by  the  inviting  murmur  of  its  waters : 
a  boy  bringing  horses  to  it,  the  first  he  had  spoken  to  since 
Father  Tudor's  voice  had  thundered  panic  in  his  ear,  told 
him  it  was  the  Liffey,  and  his  mind's  eye  pursued  it  through 
the  foliage  on  its  winding  way  to  Dublin,  where  it  would 
join  that  tinier  rivulet  which  had  bewitched  him  at  Killakee ; 
together  they  would  fall  into  the  sea,  the  sea  that  was  the 
common  ground  of  all  the  peoples  of  the  teeming  earth. 
.  .  .  He  pined  again  to  look  upon  the  sea,  to  travel  on  it, 
maybe,  in  the  Bristol  boat.  The  thought  of  the  Bristol  boat 
conjured  up  the  thought  of  Caroline  Brady;  he  knew  not 
clearly  why,  unless  it  was  that  he  had  been  thinking  of  her 
when  his  father  had  caught  him  lingering  by  Butt  Bridge 
watching  the  Bristol  boat  so  many  years  ago.  ...  A  doubt 
arose  in  his  mind  whether  the  Bristol  boat  lay  any  longer 
in  that  berth  by  the  Custom  House,  where,  when  he  was  a 
little  boy,  he  used  to  sit  on  the  steps  to  watch  her;  but, 
whether  the  Bristol  boat  still  ran  or  not,  he  knew  that  Caro- 
line Brady  was  really  alive;  for  he  had  seen  her  twice,  or 
at  any  rate  once  for  certain  sure.  A  longing  to  see  her 
again  became  urgent  as  he  watched  the  Liffey  water  swoop- 
ing down  to  the  sea. 

He  mounted  his  bicycle  and  rode  on.  So  easily  had  he 
taken  things,  so  lightly  wandered  off  from  any  probable 
high-road,  that  it  was  already  noon  when  he  found  himself 
outside  the  factory  chimneys  of  Celbridge,  and  another  hour 
was  gone  ere  he  crossed  the  Dublin  border.  At  Lucan  he 
stopped  to  feed,  modestly  enough,  on  tea  and  bread  and 
butter.  It  was  two  o'clock  when  he  mounted  again,  con- 
scious of  weariness  in  his  head  and  limbs.  He  rode  beside 


OF  FLIGHT  AND  A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS    193 

the  tram  line  until  Chapelisod,  where  he  turned  into  the 
Phoenix  Park.  Here  it  was  dark,  misty,  and  mysterious 
amidst  the  great  trees :  it  seemed  lonely,  too,  turning  off  the 
high-road,  with  all  its  traffic,  into  the  aristocratic  solitudes 
that  embosomed  the  residence  of  the  Viceroy  and  that  Chief 
Secretary,  nominally  his  servant,  but,  as  Adam  was  poli- 
tician enough  to  know,  actually  his  master.  Pedalling  up 
the  rising  gradient  that  he  guessed  should  lead  him  out 
somewhere  between  the  Wellington  Obelisk  and  the  Zoologi- 
cal Gardens,  whence  he  knew  well  his  way  into  the  town, 
he  fell  a-thinking  on  the  mystery  of  government  and  why 
it  was  that  the  nominal  master  of  Ireland  should  be  paid 
£20,000  a  year  while  the  real  master  had  less  than  a  quarter 
of  that  sum,  when  out  of  the  quiet  of  the  trees  came  the 
cry  of  a  woman's  voice,  a  cry  for  help. 

It  startled  him  by  the  remembrance  it  roused  of  the 
clamant  scream  of  his  mother  when  the  late  Mr.  Macfadden 
laid  violent  hands  upon  her  for  the  last  time  in  that  hero's 
life.  .  .  .  Not  so  shrill,  not  so  compelling,  not  so  convincing 
a  cry  was  it  ...  yet  was  it  credibly,  undeniably,  the  cry  of 
a  female,  and  a  young  female,  in  distress.  And  Adam  knew 
it  to  be  directed  to  him ;  he  looked  around,  he  saw  no  one, 
nothing  beyond  a  lonely  perspective  ahead  of  him,  and  an 
equally  lonely  curve  behind,  so  far  as  he  could  see  behind 
without  dismounting  from  his  bicycle.  .  .  .  Instinct  bade 
him  put  all  his  strength  into  his  feet  to  carry  that  bicycle 
faster  towards  civilization.  .  .  .  Then  the  scream  came 
again,  quite  unmistakably  ;  "Help  !  Help  !" 

Dismounting,  he  faced  about  to  see  a  young  woman 
emerge  from  the  gloom  of  a  copse,  running  swiftly  towards 
him.  .  .  .  She  had  the  air  of  being  pursued,  and  he  thought 
he  saw  a  further  movement  in  the  foliage  behind  her.  He 
could  not  say  what  caused  the  movement ;  his  mind's  eye 
presented  to  him  at  once  the  images  of  a  drunken  tinker  and 
a  mad  bull.  .  .  .  He  had  often  thought  of  what  he  would 


194  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

do  if  he  encountered  a  drunken  tinker  or  a  mad  bull,  and 
was  not  without  a  certain  preparedness  for  meeting  either 
of  these  contingencies.  .  .  .  But  the  uncertainty  as  to 
whether  he  was  now  about  to  confront  the  inebriated  crafts- 
man or  the  insane  head  of  cattle  unnerved  him,  and  he  found 
it  hard  indeed  not  to  spring  on  his  bicycle  again  while  there 
was  yet  time.  ...  As  the  distressed  damsel  drew  near  him 
she  slackened  her  pace  almost  to  stopping,  but,  seeing  him 
as  though  in  doubt  whether  to  flee,  she  cried  out  again  for 
help  and  accelerated  her  movement. 

Partly  because  she  cried  to  him,  and  partly  because  the 
enemy  seemed  loth  to  break  cover,  Adam  gathered  courage 
to  stand  his  ground.  .  .  .  Near  enough  for  him  to  see  her 
eyes,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  cowardly  to  desert  her. 
Though  a  little  draggled  from  her  run,  he  deemed  her  too 
fair  a  lady  to  be  left  by  him  to  the  mercies  of  tinker  or  bull, 
if  such,  indeed,  was  the  nature  of  her  persecutor.  A  few 
feet  from  him  she  panted:  "You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you? 
...  I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind." 

Adam  touched  his  cap,  would  have  lifted  it,  but  it  seemed 
somehow  to  have  stuck  to  his  forehead:  "Not  at  all,"  he 
assured  her,  "not  at  all.  I  don't  mind  in  the  very  least," 
and  waited  to  learn  what  he  was  expected  to  mind. 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't  mind,"  she  said,  and  beamed  on 
him  with  pretty  and  coaxing  brown  eyes  that  held  no  great 
fear  in  them.  "It's  a  fearful  lonely  road,  this." 

"I  suppose  it  is  lonely,"  said  Adam  carelessly.  ""What 
frightened  you?  Was  it  cattle  or  deer?" 

She  seemed  to  him  to  blush.  "Frightened  you  may  well 
say  I  was,  but  don't  let  me  keep  you  standing  talking."  As 
Adam  hesitated,  she  suggested  :  "Let's  just  walk  on  together, 
if  you  please."  Mystified,  Adam  obeyed,  and  began  to  push 
the  bicycle  somewhat  drearily  towards  the  east  side  of  the 
park.  "Unless,"  she  suggested,  "you  prefer  to  sit  down 
and  rest." 


OF  FLIGHT  AND  A  DAM3EL  IN  DISTRESS     195 

Adam  stared  at  her.  "I  thought  you  said  you  were  fright- 
ened ?"  he  protested. 

"I  should  just  think  I  was,"  she  assured  him;  "you  feel 
my  heart  beat,"  and  she  obligingly  assisted  him  to  do  so. 
Adam  thought  two  things.  Firstly,  that  her  heart  beat 
very  nicely,  and  secondly,  that  it  was  odd  that  she  should 
be  so  very  frightened  and  so  indifferent  in  the  face  of 
danger.  "What  happened  to  you?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  then  dropped  her  eyes.  "What 
happened  ?  ...  It  wasn't  so  much  what  happened  as  what 
was  going  to  happen."  She  looked  at  him  again,  and  again 
dropped  her  eyes.  "You'd  never  guess  what  was  going  to 
happen." 

Adam  was  disconcerted  at  the  suggestion  that  he  was 
unable  to  guess  such  a  simple  thing.  "It  was  a  bull  ?"  he 
hazarded. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  he  saw  there  were  tears  in  hers,  but 
she  did  not  speak.  He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  whether 
it  was  a  bull  or  not.  "If  it  was  a  bull,"  said  he,  "we'd  better 
not  be  standing  here." 

Without  enlightening  him  as  to  what  it  was,  she  an- 
swered: "No;  do  let's  be  getting  on."  She  looked  at  his 
bicycle.  "I  suppose  you're  too  young  to  take  me  on  the 
carrier?" 

Adam  was  not  used  to  taking  people  on  his  carrier,  but 
he  did  not  like  to  say  "No."  "We  might  try,"  he  admitted. 
"But  how  would  you  hold  on?" 

"With  my  arms  round  your  waist,  dear,"  she  said  win- 
ningly. 

Adam  looked  from  her  to  his  bicycle,  .scratched  his  head, 
and  then  pinched  his  back  tyre.  "I'm  afraid,"  he  said  at 
last,  "the  weight  would  be  too  much." 

Her  tone  in  rejoinder  was  ironical :  "I  knew  you  were 
too  young.  Would  you  like  me  to  walk  beside  and  push 
you?" 


196  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Adam  glared  at  her  resentfully.  "I  am  thirteen,"  said 
Adam,  "I  will  be  fourteen  before  long." 

Her  face  fell  and  then  lit  up  again.  "Is  that  all?  .  .  . 
Then  perhaps  we'd  better  be  getting  on  the  way  home. 
Your  Da'll  be  angry  if  you're  late  for  tea." 

"I  have  no  Da,"  Adam  rejoined,  and  nearly  claimed  that 
he  had  never  had  one,  but  broke  off  to  say  once  again: 
"What  was  it  frightened  you?" 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  it  was  a  bull?"  said  she. 

Adam  thought  her  a  baffling  lady.  "I  thought  it  was  a 
bull,  but " 

"Wonders  will  never  cease,"  said  she.  "I  thought  it  was 
a  soldier." 

"A  soldier?"  Adam  cried.  "A  soldier,  was  it?  Where 
is  he?"  He  stopped  and  looked  round  defiantly. 

The  young  lady  took  him  by  the  arm.  "Never  mind 
where  he  is  now,"  she  said,  "sure,  maybe  when  he  saw  the 
bicycle  he  ran  away." 

Adam  looked  at  her  questioningly.  "Why  should  he  be 
afraid  of  the  bicycle?" 

"In  fear  you  might  go  and  call  the  polis,"  she  answered, 
and  hurried  on.  "It  was  well  for  me  you  came,  or  I  don't 
know  what  would  have  happened." 

Adam  blushed  to  hear  himself  ask:  "What  do  you  think 
might  have  happened?" 

She  looked  at  him  defiantly :  "Oh,  indeed,  and  nothing  at 
all,"  she  said.  "L'd  rather  die  than  let  a  scrubby  little  snot 
of  an  English  soldier  kiss  me  holy  toe." 

Adam  looked  at  her  with  great  interest  and  some  admira- 
tion. "D'you  think  he  would  have  tried  to  do  that?"  he 
asked,  adding  a  thoughtful:  "But  why?" 

She  laughed  a  bitter  but  a  taking  laugh.  "You  never 
know  what  a  khaki  cut-throat  will  be  after  if  he  meets  a 
girl  on  a  lonely  road." 


OF  FLIGHT  AND  A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS    197 

"But,"  said  Adam,  "to  kiss  your  toe  ?  There  could  be  no 
great  harm  in  that." 

"Not  if  he  left  off  at  the  heel  of  me  stocking,"  she  re- 
joined, "but  sure  it's  no  use  telling  me  you're  only  thirteen." 

"Nearly  fourteen,"  Adam  said,  "I  told  you  nearly  four- 
teen." 

She  eyed  him  quizzingly :  "You're  the  queer  lad  for  your 
age,"  she  said,  "I  think  we'll  part  beyond  at  the  cross  road, 
for  you  wouldn't  be  liking  to  see  me  home,  would  you?" 

"If  you  think  there's  any  danger "  Adam  began. 

She  cut  in  with :  "I  see  no  bulls  about,  do  you  ?" 

"But  there  are  soldiers,"  Adam  pointed  out.  There  were 
two  approaching  swinging  penny  canes. 

The  lady  looked  at  them.  "Oh,  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  of 
that  pair,"  said  she,  "and  I  see  you  don't  want  to  bring  me 
home." 

Adam  reddened.  He  certainly  did  not  want  to  bring  her 
home,  but  he  hated  to  say  point  blank  that  it  was  impossible, 
nor  was  he  willing  to  betray  the  suspicion  of  her  character 
forming  in  his  mind.  "I  have  to  go  to  Mountjoy  Square," 
he  said,  "do  you  know  where  that  is?" 

She  laughed.  "Who  doesn't  know  where  Mountjoy 
Square  is,  that  knows  anything  about  Dublin  at  all?  Sure 
I  live  within  a  stone's  throw  of  it  myself." 

Of  course,  Adam  could  not  refrain  from  the  question: 
"Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"I  wondered  how  long  ye'd  be  before  you'd  ask  me  that," 
she  returned.  "I  live  in  Pleasant  Street,  and  that's  a  fact, 
No.  10  and  it's  second  next  door  but  two  from  that  grand 
house  of  Mrs.  O'Toole's." 

Adam's  face  and  ears  burned.  "Who  is  Mrs.  O'Toole?" 
he  asked. 

The  rescued  damsel  stared  at  him.  "Well,  it's  easy  to 
see  you  don't  know  much  about  Pleasant  Street,  or  you 


i98  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

wouldn't  need  to  be  told  that  Mrs.  O'Toole's  real  name  is 
Mrs.  Macfadden." 

Adam  did  not  stay  to  argue  this  point :  suddenly  he  was 
in  his  saddle,  pressing  the  pace  to  leave  the  lady  behind. 
Turning  a  corner  he  glimpsed  her  over  his  shoulder  talking 
to  the  two  soldiers.  Feverishly  he  rode  on,  plunging  madly 
between  the  motor-cars  sweeping  up  and  down  the  main 
road  by  the  Gough  Statue.  Soon  he  was  whizzing  through 
the  park  gates  on  to  North  Circular  Road.  He  had  no 
thought  now  but  to  get  home  and  quickly,  or  rather  to  flee 
into  that  one  certain  harbor  of  refuge,  his  guardian  Mr. 
Macarthy's  room.  Pedalling  ever  faster,  he  hummed  along 
the  straight  line  to  the  Abattoir.  In  front  of  him  he  saw 
nothing  but  an  electric  tram  outpacing  him  by  very  little  up 
the  road.  He  doubled  his  body  in  his  effort  to  overtake  it. 
then  suddenly  there  was  a  shout,  the  roar  of  what  he  said 
to  himself  was  that  mad  bull,  a  shock,  horns  and  fiery  eyes, 
a  flying  through  space  and  nothingness. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  MIRACLE  OF  THE  TRAMS 

IN  after  years  Adam  perceived  two  marked  lacunae  in  the 
history  of  his  life  which  he  carried  in  his  memory,  adding 
a  paragraph  day  by  day.  The  first  was  when  the  police  spy, 
known  to  him  by  the  sobriquet  of  Old  Comet,  frightened 
him  to  death's  door  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel,  and  as 
chance  would  have  it  gave  him  his  first  glimpse  of  happiness. 
The  second  was  when  in  full  career  from  the  renewed 
menace  of  Father  Tudor,  he  dashed  at  the  highest  speed  to 
which  his  young  legs  could  urge  his  bicycle  into  a  bullock 
proceeding  to  his  own  funeral  outside  the  cattle  market, 
whose  last  act  ere  passing  over  to  the  happy  grounds  where 
no  drovers  hunt,  was  to  knock  him  senseless.  Each  break 
was  the  occasion  of  his  waking  and  wondering  to  find  him- 
self in  a  hospital,  but  the  second  time  his  stay  was  short 
and  his  homecoming  an  event  of  joy.  His  fractures  were 
simple  and  soon  set,  but  the  shock  to  spine  and  brain  were 
serious,  and  it  was  full  summer  before  Dr.  Ahern,  once 
again  in  charge  of  him,  pronounced  him  to  be  as  sound  as 
he  was  likely  ever  more  to  be. 

This  was  the  most  luxurious  spring  of  Adam's  life.  His 
fourteenth  birthday,  the  happiest  of  all  birthdays,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  absolutely  nothing  happened  on  it:  he 
simply  lay  most  cozily  in  bed,  read  The  Three  Musketeers, 
and  convinced  himself  that  he  was  d'Artagnan,  or  would 
be  as  soon  as  he  got  up.  For  it  was  quite  settled  with  his 
guardian  that  his  school  days  were  over.  Even  Father  Mul- 
doon  was  content  that  this  should  be  so:  he  was  satisfied 
with  the  knowledge  that  Adam  was  firmly  bound  to  a  Jesuit 

199 


200  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

confessor  .  .  .  had  advertised  the  wisdom  and  piety  of 
Father  Ignatius  Steele  with  a  tongue  energized  by  an  un- 
balanced brain :  also  he  had  proclaimed  the  idiosyncrasies  of 
Father  Tudor  .  .  .  but  this  Father  Muldoon  pooh-poohed 
as  beside  the  point,  though  he  let  Father  Tudor  know  of  it. 
To  Mr.  Macarthy  he  expressed  it  as  his  wish  that  Adam, 
when  his  brain  should  be  sufficiently  recovered  to  climb 
Parnassus'  higher  slopes,  should  read  with  coaches  (whom 
he  should  select  for  him)  with  a  view  to  matriculation  at 
the  National  University.  To  this  Mr.  Macarthy  did  not 
say,  "no,"  and  Father  Muldoon  avoided  the  impolicy  of  ask- 
ing him  to  say  "yes." 

If  Mr.  Macarthy's  religious  ideas  were  unlike  Father  In- 
nocent's, his  educational  methods  were  wholly  remote  from 
those  obtaining  not  only  at  Belvedere  but  at  Clongowes :  he 
never  used  the  word  "work"  in  any  sense  in  which  Father 
Tudor  or  his  disciples  would  have  used  it.  He  said  no  word 
implying  that  Adam's  formal  education  was  unfinished. 
Mr.  O'Meagher  agreed  with  him  that  nothing  more  could 
be  done  in  the  boy's  present  nervous  condition,  but  harped 
on  the  subject  of  preparing  him  for  the  National  University, 
with  a  view  to  his  winning  distinction  in  Gaelic.  As  for  the 
other  guardian,  the  judicious  Mr.  O'Toole,  he  desired  en- 
tirely to  be  guided  by  Mr.  Macarthy.  He  actually  called 
at  St.  George's  Place,  neatly  attired  in  flannels,  with  a  straw 
hat,  the  M.C.C.  ribbon  on  which  made  an  effective  contrast 
to  his  black  bow  tie  (to  which  he  was  more  faithful  than 
to  anything  else)  to  exhort  his  godson  to  regard  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy as  one  possessing  infallibility.  "There's  nothing  that 
queer  fellow  doesn't  know,"  he  assured  him.  "You  can't 
go  wrong  if  you  follow  him."  And  Adam  was  aware  that 
he  himself  was  addressed  with  a  growing  respect,  as  one  in 
whom  the  potent  Macarthy  had  condescended  to  be  inter- 
ested. 

As  a  corollary  to  this  Adam  looked  upon  his  godfather 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  THE  TRAMS  201 

with  a  less  critical  eye :  the  flannel  suit  pleased  him  as  well 
cut,  which  indeed  it  was,  though  not  for  Mr.  O'Toole,  and 
as  he  had  never  heard  of  the  M.C.C.,  he  was  not  troubled 
by  the  unauthorized  flaunting  of  their  favor :  only  the  black 
tie  connected  this  improved  godfather  with  him  of  unre- 
generate  days.  He  was  going  to  inquire  for  his  mother 
when  there  percolated  into  his  mind  an  echo  of  what  he 
had  learnt  in  the  Phoenix  Park  immediately  before  his  catas- 
trophe: he  was  unable  to  resolve  whether  he  had  really 
heard  it,  and  perhaps  bias  suggested  that  it  was  told  him  in 
his  fever.  He  was  startled  that  Mr.  O'Toole,  looking  in 
his  eyes,  should  say :  "You  haven't  asked  after  your  mother. 
And  why,  indeed,  should  you?  Sure,  what  does  it  matter? 
But  she  told  me  to  say  that  she  sends  you  her  compliments 
and  would  bring  them  herself  if  it  wasn't  for  her  feet." 

"Feet  ?"  Adam  echoed.    "What  about  her  feet  ?" 

"Gout  in  the  big  toe,"  said  Mr.  O'Toole,  describing,  in 
what  he  believed  to  be  a  fashionable  manner,  that  malady 
commonly  called  a  bunion. 

Adam's  reply  went  near  to  surprising  his  godfather: 
"What  sort  of  a  street  is  Pleasant  Street?" 

Mr.  O'Toole  studied  his  expression  before  answering:  "I 
don't  wonder  at  your  asking  that,  now ;  for  I'm  sorry  to  say 
it's  not  at  all  the  sort  of  street  it  was.  I'd  be  thinking  of 
moving  now  if  I  hadn't  bought  two  more  houses  in  it."  He 
added  with  a  sigh :  "That's  the  trouble  about  house  property, 
but  I've  got  it  in  the  blood" ;  and  he  went  away  on  this,  leav- 
ing Adam  wondering  what  he  meant  by  having  house  prop- 
erty in  the  blood,  finally  deciding,  from  the  way  in  which 
Mr.  O'Toole  had  said  it,  that  it  was  a  more  agreeable  com- 
plaint than  gout  in  the  big  toe. 

It  pleased  Adam  that  Miss  Gannon  and  Attracta  both  ap- 
proved of  Mr.  O'Toole :  he  was  surprised  that  he  should  be 
pleased,  for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  approve  of  Mr. 
O'Toole:  the  black  tie  reminded  him  that  he  had  seen  him 


202  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

behave  in  a  less  courtly  manner  than  that  which  won  the 
heart  of  the  innocent  women  of  St.  George's  Place.  He 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  pleased  at  their  approval 
of  him,  because  on  hearing  him  announced  he  had  felt  so 
ashamed  of  what  they  might  think  of  him.  And  it  is  a 
ticklish  thing  to  be  ashamed  of  your  godfather,  particularly 
if  ...  If  what?  He  was  too  weary  to  pursue  the  question. 
It  was  best  not  to  think  about  Pleasant  Street  at  all  and 
growing  daily  more  easy  to  forget  it.  Mr.  O'Toole's  visit 
was  not  repeated,  and  would  have  passed  from  his  mind 
had  not  Attracta  fished  out  The  Young  Gentleman's 
Guide  from  its  hiding-place  and  decoratively  arranged  it 
under  his  Prayer  Book  on  the  side  table  of  misbegotten 
bamboo,  hitherto  exclusively  reserved  for  works  of  piety. 
Adam  was  always  meaning  to  expel  it  thence,  but  never 
quite  succeeded  in  summoning  up  the  decision  to  do  so: 
there  was  no  denying  that  it  was  handsomely  bound,  if  you 
liked  that  sort  of  thing :  violet  plush,  with,  as  inset,  a  piece 
of  glass  encircled  by  the  legend,  in  Gothic  characters,  "The 
Mirror  of  Knighthood."  In  idle  moments  Adam  sought  to 
use  this  as  a  burning-glass  with  which  to  turn  the  sun's  beam 
on  passers-by;  but  the  glass  was  too  inferior  for  that.  .  .  . 
Even  Attracta  found  it  useless  for  her  toilet. 

Meanwhile  the  summer  drifted  idly  by.  He  had  a  feeling 
sometimes  that  that  morning  he  had  fled  from  Father  Tudor 
into  the  silvery  dawn  he  had  left  all  the  harsher  reality  of 
life  behind:  even  his  dreams,  and  he  was  always  dreaming, 
little  less  when  awake,  were  soft,  the  objects  in  them  having 
no  palpable  outline.  .  .  .  The  sun  reached  Cancer  and 
swung  down  to  Libra,  midway  to  Capricornus  ;  he  was  four- 
teen and  a  half.  .  .  .  Then  a  fantastical  thing  happened. 
Going  one  morning  to  take  the  tram  at  the  corner  of  Hard- 
wicke  Street  and  Frederick  Street,  he  waited  for  it  to  come, 
waited  with  growing  impatience  until  one  at  last  appeared, 
but  would  not  stop  at  his  signal,  being,  as  he  noticed,  full. 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  THE  TRAMS  203 

He  waited  for  another,  half  an  hour  by  St.  George's  Church : 
no  other  came.  Supposing  that  that  part  of  the  system  was 
held  up  through  breakage;  he  walked  up  to  Dorset  Street 
to  try  the  alternative  route  to  the  city,  and  waited  there; 
and  so  an  hour  and  a  half  went  by,  and  yet  he  saw  no  tram. 
Overcoming  his  repugnance  to  the  police,  he  inquired  of  a 
constable  the  wherefore  of  this  failure. 

"Why  there's  no  tram,  is  it  ?"  said  the  constable.  "Faith, 
you'd  better  ask  them  at  Liberty  Hall." 

Adam  frowned.    "D'you  mean  there's  a  strike?"  he  asked. 

"A  strike  and  a  half,"  said  the  constable  moodily.  He 
was  a  fattish  man  with  melancholy  eyes,  obviously  not  born 
to  be  a  policeman,  but  rather  a  philosopher;  and  in  a  phi- 
losophic tone  he  said :  "You  might  call  it  the  beginning  of 
the  bloody  end." 

Perceiving  him  not  to  be  as  other  constables,  but  one  who 
would  stay  question,  Adam  asked:  "How  can  an  end  have 
a  beginning?" 

The  constable  did  not  resent  the  question :  he  merely  said : 
"True  for  ye,"  and  passed  on.  He  was  manifestly  very  de- 
pressed. Adam,  abandoning  his  idea  of  going  into  town, 
turned  his  steps  towards  Mountjoy  Square,  and,  finding 
Mr.  Macarthy,  recounted  to  him  his  conversation  with  the 
policeman.  Mr.  Macarthy  said  he  was  glad  to  know  that 
there  was  an  intelligent  man  in  the  Dublin  Metropolitan 
Police. 

"Then,"  said  Adam,  "things  are  going  to  be  lively,  are 
they?" 

"They're  going  to  be  deadly,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  but 
did  not  pursue  the  subject. 

And  after  that  for  months  there  were  few  trams,  and,  the 
strike  spreading  from  calling  to  trade  and  trade  to  calling, 
there  was  not  a  great  deal  of  anything,  and  that  dear;  and 
many  died,  chiefly  among  the  poor;  and  some  that  lived 
wished  they  were  dead.  But  Adam  kept  cheerful,  and  was 


204  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

glad  to  be  alive,  for  the  realities  of  life  had  ceased  to  trouble 
him;  he  lived  now  in  a  world  of  his  own,  begotten  of 
dreams  by  books.  Even  when  he  was  knocked  down  in  a 
riot  and  picked  himself  up  just  in  time  to  see  a  policeman 
slay  a  man  with  a  blow  from  his  baton  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  it  seemed  to  him  little  more  than  an  exciting  detail  in 
the  pageantry  of  life.  .  .  .  It  only  made  him  hate  and  de- 
spise policemen  a  very  little  more.  After  all,  it  was  less 
cowardly  to  kill  a  man,  even  with  a  blow  from  behind,  than 
to  twist  the  arm  off  a  woman,  as  he  had  seen  policemen  do 
a  dozen  times  when  he  was  an  urchin  playing  in  Marlbor- 
ough  Street  or  selling  papers  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel. 

What  impressed  him  most  was  the  growing  ascendancy 
of  Mr.  Macarthy,  whose  sitting-room  in  Mountjoy  Square 
was  now  so  constantly  used  by  various  committees  that 
Adam  was  permitted  to  take  his  books  into  the  bedroom, 
where,  sitting  by  the  fire,  his  eyes  would  travel  from  the 
printed  page  to  the  portrait  of  Erasmus,  and  that  queer 
advertisement  of  Mr.  Oswald  Onsin's  achievement,  and  the 
ugly  old  crucifix,  and  the  odd  Greek  text  meaning  that 
David  the  king  begot  Solomon  of  her  who  had  been  the 
wife  of  Urias.  He  found  himself  pondering  of  whom  that 
other  David,  called  Byron-Quinn,  had  begotten  the  child  to 
whom  his  last  poem  was  addressed.  He  was  pondering  this 
one  day  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde 
saying  to  Mr.  Macarthy,  in  the  hall  between  the  two  doors : 
"I  think  it  very  wise  of  you;  but,  then,  what  you  do  is 
always  wise." 

Adam  knew  that  most  people  thought  his  guardian  wise ; 
he  himself  thought  him  as  wise  as  Solomon.  And  yet  Adam 
might  have  passed  him  a  hundred  times  in  the  street  and 
never  noticed  him.  It  was  only  when  he  spoke  that  he 
roused  attention,  and  he  did  not  waste  words.  Words.  .  .  . 
Was  there  anything  that  could  not  be  expressed  in  words? 
.So  far  as  words  went,  Air.  Macarthy  seemed  to  know 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  THE  TRAMS  205 

everything.  He  never  seemed  to  want  a  word;  he  com- 
manded them  like  a  king.  But  did  that  prove  anything? 
On  Adam's  lap  lay  a  book  by  a  fellow  called  Oscar  Wilde, 
interesting  to  Adam  because  someone  had  shown  him  the 
house  where  he  was  born  in  Westland  Row :  he  claimed  to 
be  a  lord  of  words.  That  did  not  prevent  the  English  send- 
ing him  to  jail  for  some  queer  reason.  But,  then,  he 
was  an  Irishman,  and  the  English  never  troubled  about 
reasons  for  sending  Irishmen  to  jail.  When  Adam  first 
noticed  that  Mr.  Macarthy  had  the  books  of  Oscar  Wilde, 
he  asked  his  guardian  whether  they  were  worth  reading, 
and  Mr.  Macarthy  had  answered  dubiously:  "Perhaps  The 
Cantcrville  Ghost,"  and  added  thoughtfully :  "Of  course, 
every  book  is  worth  reading  really  if  one  were  alone  with  it 
on  a  desert  island.  .  .  .  Even  Tinkler's." 

"His  poems  or  his  plays?"  Adam  asked. 

"It's  an  awful  choice,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said;  "perhaps  I 
ought  to  say  a  delicate  choice.  But  you've  heard  him  read 
his  poems,  haven't  you?" 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago,"  Adam  said.  "I  was  only 
twelve,  not  old  enough  to  judge." 

"Perhaps  not,"  Mr.  Macarthy  agreed,  and  said  brightly: 
"I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  old  enough  to  appreciate  Tinkler's 
plays.  You'd  better  hear  him  read  one  himself." 

"That  would  be  jolly,"  said  Adam.  "D'you  think  he'd 
read  one  to  us  ?" 

"One  or  more,"  Mr.  Macarthy  answered  gloomily. 

Adam's  enthusiasm  was  just  a  little  shaken.  "What  are 
they  all  about?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Macarthy  turned  to  him  in  sorrow  rather  than  in 
anger,  and  said  in  a  carefully  modulated  voice :  "Adam,  my 
dear  boy,  I  am  always  charmed  to  answer  your  questions, 
but  we  really  must  draw  the  line  somewhere." 

"Are  they  very  bad?"  Adam  asked,  and  was  astounded 
by  the  simplicity  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  reply: 


206  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"I  have  written  worse."  Ere  Adam  could  question  him 
about  it,  he  volunteered :  "Some  day  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
it,  but  not  until  you  are  old  enough  to  appreciate  its  de- 
merits." 


CHAPTER  XXV 
JOSEPHINE  PUTS  HER  HAIR  UP 

ERE  the  second  year  had  passed  since  Adam  made  Mr. 
Macarthy's  acquaintance  at  the  tea-shop  in  College  Street, 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  spent  his  whole  life  in  his  company. 
Not  even  with  Father  Innocent  had  he  been  on  such  familiar 
terms;  for  many  questions  now  presented  themselves  to  his 
mind  that  he  knew  it  had  been  vain  to  ask  Father  Innocent 
even  had  he  dared  to  shock  him  with  them :  there  was  none 
he  could  not,  and  few  he  did  not,  put  to  Mr.  Macarthy. 
And  the  more  serious  questions  were  always  answered  on 
the  spot,  without  attempt  to  evade  the  meaning  that  lay  be- 
hind the  form  of  the  query.  And  yet,  though  it  was  Adam 
who  questioned  and  Mr.  Macarthy  who  responded,  Adam 
felt  that  he  really  knew  the  mere  fringe  of  his  guardian's 
intellectual,  or,  as  Father  Innocent  would  have  said,  spir- 
itual life:  his  open  and  ready  answer  often  suggested  that 
even  fuller  information  couched  in  the  mind  that  gave  so 
much  while  it  volunteered  so  little.  He  came  to  think  of 
his  guardian  as  one  who  knew  everything,  almost  as  one 
who  could  do  everything.  And  he  often  wondered  why  he 
was  content  to  say  little  and  do  less;  for  his  spontaneous 
talk  was  banter,  and  his  activities  of  the  kind  that  the  late 
Mr.  Macfadden  had  dismissed  as  womanish.  Had  he  not 
seen  him  to  be  a  gentleman  and  heard  him  so  spoken  of  even 
by  the  exacting  Mr.  O'Toole,  Adam  would  have  thought  of 
him  as  a  lady. 

This  impression  was  deepened  by  the  fact  that  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy had  many  women  visitors,  of  all  ages  and  wellnigh 
aH  sorts,  plain  and  pretty,  dowdy  and  modish :  but  they  were 

207 


208  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

quite  unlike  the  women  among  whom  his  infancy  had  been 
passed,  or  even  the  prettiest  lady  to  be  met  in  Pleasant 
Street.  The  only  persons  from  his  earlier  portrait  gallery 
whom  he  could  think  of  as  worthy  of  their  company  were 
Josephine  O'Meagher  and  her  mother :  and  he  considered, 
with  an  emotion  strange  and  bitter-sweet,  what  Josephine 
would  make  of  Mr.  Macarthy  if  she  met  him  now,  and 
whether  she  would  still  want  to  be  a  nun,  or  want  to  sit 
again  in  his  lap,  after  she  had  dined,  or  lunched,  or  supped, 
or  breakfasted  with  him  at  Mountjoy  Square.  A  notable 
thing  that  ladies  should  find  Mr.  Macarthy's  conversation 
so  wise  that  they  would  get  up  early  enough  in  the  morning 
to  share  his  breakfast  with  him. 

"They  must  think  a  lot  of  you,"  said  Adam  to  Mr. 
Macarthy. 

"Pure  kindness  of  heart,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  to  Adam. 
"Women  are  always  kind  to  anyone  who  appreciates  them, 
and  I  do:  I  always  did." 

"And  so  do  I,"  Adam  heartily  returned,  "and  always 
will." 

"In  time,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

Mr.  Macarthy  never  went  to  Sandycove:  Adam  knew, 
somehow,  that  Mrs.  O'Meagher  did  not  approve  of  Mr. 
Macarthy ;  and,  although  Mr.  O'Meagher  brought  from  time 
to  time  a  formal  invitation,  no  one  expected  it  to  be  ac- 
cepted. He  did  not  fail  to  notice  that  even  himself  was 
never  asked  there  when  Josephine  was  at  home,  and  so  he 
ceased  to  go.  If  Josephine  didn't  want  to  see  him,  what 
was  the  use  of  his  wanting  to  see  her?  .  .  .  Yet  she  haunted 
his  dreams,  and  more  particularly  on  Friday  nights,  when 
the  cornet  player  hung  about  St.  George's  Church  playing 
"When  other  lips"  with  notably  increasing  quavers. 

But  it  was  startling  when,  one  night  after  Mr.  O'Meagher 
and  Herr  Behre  had  dined  with  Mr.  Macarthy  at  Mountjoy 
Square,  the  former,  nervous  and  distraught,  had  turned 


JOSEPHINE  PUTS  HER  HAIR  UP  209 

bloodshot  eyes  on  Adam  and  said:  "You  wouldn't  know 
Josephine  now:  she's  got  her  hair  up." 

Adam's  tongue  failed  him.  .  .  .  There  was  a  dead  silence, 
until  Herr  Behre  broke  it,  saying  politely :  "You  mean  your 
daughter,  sir?" 

"If  you  like  to  call  her  so/'  Mr.  O'Meagher  mumbled,  on 
the  verge  of  tears. 

Mr.  Behre,  not  understanding  the  nature  of  his  emotion, 
went  on:  "From  your  age,  she  could  not  be  too  old  for 
Adam." 

"No  woman  could  be  too  old  for  Adam,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy,  with  an  air  of  great  indifference;  "he  simply  dotes 
on  the  Marchesa." 

Herr  Behre  growled  laughingly.  "The  Church  says  a  man 
must  not  love  his  grandmother." 

Adam  saw  Mr.  Macarthy  smile,  but  he  had  ears  for  none 
but  Mr.  O'Meagher,  being  eager  to  hear  what  he  might  say 
about  himself  and  Josephine. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  took  up  his  theme  gruffly.  "I  don't  know 
about  my  daughter  being  too  old  for  Adam,  but  I  do  know 
that  it's  a  damned  shame  to  persuade  her  that  she's  old 
enough  for  Christ." 

"Hear,  hear,"  cried  Herr  Behre  with  enthusiasm. 

Mr.  Macarthy  asked  coldly :  "Why  do  you  allow  anyone 
to  persuade  her?" 

"Hear,  hear,"  Mr.  Behre  echoed ;  "why  do  you  allow  any- 
one to  persuade  her?" 

Mr.  O'Meagher  turned  sulky.  "All  damn  well  for  you 
fellows  to  talk !  The  girl  has  a  mother." 

Adam  looked  to  Mr.  Macarthy  to  say  something  here,  but 
he  held  his  peace,  smiling,  though  not  cheerfully. 

But  it  was  Herr  Behre  who  insisted:  "She  has  a  father 
too." 

Mr.  O'Meagher's  temper  rose.  "Bachelors  cannot  pos- 
sibly understand  what  it  is  to  have  a  wife  and  family." 


210  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  icily.  "Bachelors  can  perfectly  un- 
derstand what  it  is  to  be  afraid  of  a  woman." 

And  again  Mr.  Behre  said :  "Hear,  hear." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  fellows 
don't  believe  in  anything,"  he  muttered. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  the  German  returned;  "I  believe  in 
music  and  the  social  revolution." 

"That's  something,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  declared,  "though 
you  couldn't  call  it  a  real  belief."  He  flung  out  a  denuncia- 
tory hand :  "But  Macarthy  there,  with  all  his  cleverness, 
which  I'd  be  the  last  to  deny,  doesn't  even  believe  as  much 
as  that." 

Mr.  Macarthy 's  smile  was  more  genial  as  he  returned : 
"What  if  I  said  I  believed  in  cleverness?" 

"You  wouldn't  call  cleverness  a  religion,"  said  Mr. 
O'Meagher. 

"By  cleverness  and  goodness  I  understand  the  same 
thing,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "and  you  won't  easily  make-  me 
believe  that  you  share  your  wife's  faith  in  the  infinite 
stupidity  of  God." 

"You're  very  very  harsh  now,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  protested 
feebly. 

"Not  harsh  enough,"  his  host  retorted,  "when  I  think  of 
her  urging  you  to  let  that  child,  not  half  grown  up,  swear  to 
fritter  her  life  away  in  the  most  paltering  of  all  selfish 
follies." 

Adam  was  a  little  shocked  by  this  expression  of  his  guar- 
dian's opinion  of  the  calling  of  a  nun :  he  suspected  it  to  be 
an  intentional  over-statement  made  to  excite  Mr.  O'Meag- 
her's  wrath.  So  he  was  perplexed  to  the  verge  of  laughter 
when  Josephine's  father  cried :  "That's  what  it  is !"  and, 
pouring  out  a  stiff  whisky,  banged  his  hand  on  the  table  to 
emphasize  the  words :  "To  Hell  with  the  Pope !" 

Mr.  Macarthy  filled  up  his  guest's  glass  with  soda-water 
while  he  said:  "The  Pope  has  enough  troubles  of  his  own; 


JOSEPHINE  PUTS  HER  HAIR  UP  211 

why  should  we  visit  ours  upon  him?  No  one  can  compel 
you  to  send  your  daughter  into  a  convent  if  you  want  to 
keep  her  out.  She  can't  even  enter  of  her  own  accord  for 
years  to  come  if  you  refuse  your  consent." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  shook  his  head  pitifully.  "You  don't 
know  my  wife,"  said  he. 

Adam  noticed  that  at  this  point  Mr.  Macarthy  and  Mr. 
O'Meagher  were  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  that  Mr. 
O'Meagher's  eyes  were  the  first  to  give  way  as  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy went  on  smoothly  but  firmly:  "I  know  she  is  your 
wife,  and  I  know  the  law." 

Mr.  Behre  said  "Hear,  hear"  more  than  once,  and  Mr. 
O'Meagher  took  his  departure,  promising  that  he  would 
see  what  could  be  done.  But  Adam  had  a  dismal  feeling 
that  no  good  could  come  of  it  all,  and  that  Josephine  was 
lost  to  him  for  evermore. 

She  might  haunt  his  slumbers,  but  only  as  one,  albeit  the 
most  distinguished,  of  a  motley  and  increasing  company. 
Not  long  before  Adam  had  had  an  extraordinary  dream 
about  the  Marchesa  herself.  Young  and  radiant  as  Anadyo- 
mene,  she  was  traveling  with  him  in  a  railway  carriage 
through  Dalkey  tunnel.  .  .  .  He  woke  ecstatically  to  find  a 
full  St.  John's  moon  throwing  the  shadow  of  St.  George's 
steeple  on  his  bed :  the  bells  within  were  ringing  midnight. 
.  .  .  With  daylight  sad  reason  had  returned  to  him  with 
the  thought  that  the  frowsy  old  Marchesa  had  once  been 
young,  if  not  so  radiant  as  in  his  dream,  and,  conversely,  he 
who  had  clothed  her  in  dream  youth  would  ere  long  be  old 
and  perhaps  frowsy.  The  thought  startled  him  so  that  he 
washed  himself  with  a  great  particularity,  and  vowed  that 
he  would  so  wash  to  his  dying  day. 

This  was  the  easier,  for  Mr.  Macarthy  had  had  a  full- 
sized  bath,  with  a  geyser,  fitted  in  his  bedroom  while  he 
was  at  the  hospital,  and  no  self-denial  was  called  for  by  his 
ablutions.  But  he  really  had  come  to  love  cleanliness  for 


212  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

cleanliness'  sake,  apart  from  the  gratification  of  his  vanity, 
or  even  from  his  sensual  pleasure  in  odoriferous  soap-suds. 
Even  it  added  to  the  glamor  of  his  love  for  Josephine  that 
he  thought  of  her  always  as  on  the  night  he  had  kissed  her, 
going  to  her  bath  and  yet  smelling  as  fresh  and  clean  and 
fragrant  as  though  she  were  coming  from  it.  It  troubled 
him  greatly,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  Marchesa  was  so 
sparing  with  soap  and  water ;  he  had  seen  her  looking  clean, 
but  so  seldom  that  he  recalled  the  occasions  without  diffi- 
culty. He  had  the  same  feeling  about  her  as  about  Mr. 
O'Toole :  that  they  washed  on  grand  occasions,  but  not  from 
force  of  habit.  He  had  believed  dirtiness  to  be  one  of  the 
few  privileges  of  the  lower  classes,  and  he  resented  the 
Marchesa's  claim  to  enjoy  it:  nay,  more,  he  thought  it 
morally  wrong  of  her  to  give  way  to  it.  ...  But  then,  of 
course,  the  Marchesa,  though  a  perfect  lady,  would  not 
have  been  deemed  by  one  even  so  charitable  as  Father  Inno- 
cent a  virtuous  woman:  she  was,  in  fact,  a  ...  He  could 
not  hit  upon  any  word  to  define,  morally,  the  Marchesa. 
He  took  pains  to  find  out,  and  one  day  said  in  a  modest 
voice  to  Mr.  Macarthy:  "Would  I  be  right,  now,  in  saying 
that  the  Marchesa  was  a  harlot  ?" 

Mr.  Macarthy,  who  was  reading  a  calf -bound  book  with 
the  title  Encomium  Moria,  which  Adam  took  to  mean 
Moore's  Encomium,  looked  up  pensively  to  murmur :  "That 
depends  on  whom  you  said  it  to,"  which  puzzled  Adam  so 
much  that  he  had  difficulty  in  pursuing  the  subject,  holding 
the  simple  rule  that  if  a  thing  was  true  it  could  not  be  too 
often  said. 

At  last  Adam  ventured  to  remark:  "I  thought  she  was  a 
bit  too  old." 

Mr.  Macarthy  closed  his  book  with  a  bang,  saying:  "What 
on  earth  are  you  talking  about?" 

"The  question  is,"  said  Adam,  faltering  a  little,  "whether 


JOSEPHINE  PUTS  HER  HAIR  UP  213 

the  Marchesa  isn't  too  old,  and  even,  perhaps,  a  bit  plain, 
to  be  ...  to  be  ...  what  you  said  she  was." 

Mr.  Macarthy  knitted  his  brows:  "What  did  I  say  the 
Marchesa  was?" 

"I  don't  mean  you  actually  said  it,"  Adam  struggled  to 
explain,  "but  you  said  that  it  was  all  right  for  me  to  say  it 
if  I  said  it  to  the  right  person." 

"What  the  deuce  was  it?"  Mr.  Macarthy  inquired. 

Adam  blushed.  "I  wouldn't  like  to  repeat  it,"  he  said; 
"it  began  with  a  '  W  .  .  .  No,  an  'H.' " 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled  grimly :  "Not  a  word  you  learnt  at 
Clongowes  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  religious  word  right  enough,"  Adam  reassured 
him;  "I  got  it  in  the  Bible,  and  it  was  used  of  a  lady  of 
title,  so  I  thought  it'd  be  right." 

Mr.  Macarthy  reflected  a  moment.  "I'll  tell  you  what  to 
do,"  said  he :  "ask  the  Marchesa  herself." 

Adam  shrank  from  the  suggestion.  "I  don't  suppose 
she'd  know  what  it  was,"  he  blurted. 

"Do  you?"  Mr.  Macarthy  asked  point  blank. 

Adam's  first  impulse  was  to  say  "Yes,"  but  actually  he 
said :  "I  don't  know  what  it  is  if  she  isn't  it." 

Mr.  Macarthy  nodded  approvingly.  "I'll  put  it  to  you 
this  way.  The  word  is  a  term  of  reproach,  but  what  it 
connotes  does  not  necessarily  call  for  reproach.  You  know 
Lady  Bland,  you  know  the  Marchesa:  they  were  at  school 
together.  Lady  Bland,  if  she  had  sufficient  command  of 
the  language,  would  probably  call  the  Marchesa  a  harlot. 
.  .  .  What  the  Marchesa  would  call  Lady  Bland  baffles  my 
imagination." 

"What  would  I  be  right  in  calling  her?"  Adam  asked. 

"Why  not  go  on  calling  her  'Marchesa'?"  Mr.  Macarthy 
suggested. 

Adam  looked  at  him  doubtfully.    "You  think  I  ought  to 


214  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

call  her  that?"  But  he  was  not  really  satisfied,  and  he 
broke  out  in  a  fresh  place.  "Do  you  think  the  Marchesi 
thinks  she  could  ever  have  been  called  anything  else  ?" 

"What  the  Marchesi  thinks,"  Mr.  Macarthy  gravely  de- 
clared, "I  do  not  know,  and  I  greatly  doubt  if  he  knows 
himself." 

"Is  it  true,"  said  Adam,  "what  they  tell  me,  that  he's 
always  drunk?" 

"Not  perhaps  always,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

Adam  was  very  grave  as  he  dropped  his  voice  to  ask: 
"Do  you  think  it  was  she  that  made  him  take  to  drink?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  shook  his  head.  "It  was  more  likely  that 
drink  made  him  take  to  the  Marchesa." 

Adam  noticed  that  these  words  had  hardly  passed  Mr. 
Macarthy's  lips  when  he  seemed  sorry  to  have  said  them, 
and,  in  fact,  he  added:  "That  was  a  silly  joke  of  mine;  pay 
no  attention  to  it.  It  was  just  one  of  those  idle  words 
which,  I  agree  with  St.  Matthew,  call  for  repentance  ...  if 
anything  does." 

A  light  broke  in  on  Adam's  brain.  "Is  it,"  he  asked,  pre- 
paring his  lips  for  an  unusually  long  word,  and  one  he  had 
never  thought  to  use  before,  "is  it  unchivalrous  of  us  to 
talk  about  the  Marchesa?" 

Mr.  Macarthy's  reply  came  slowly.  "It  would  be  un- 
chivalrous of  me  to  discuss  her  unnecessarily.  ...  I  don't 
know  that  I  can  blame  you  for  asking  questions  about  her 
that  you  put  in  good  faith."  He  took  up  Sir  David  Byron- 
Quinn's  poems  and  turned  the  pages.  "Really,  I  know  very 
little  about  the  Marchesa,  except  what  she  tells  everybody, 
that  she  was  the  mistress  of  the  author  of  this  book.  That 
would  justify  Lady  Bland,  from  her  point  of  view,  in  call- 
ing her  a  harlot;  it  would  not  justify  me." 

Adam  pondered  a  long  time,  and  then  said :  "It  must  be  a 
terrible  thing  for  a  woman  like  that  to  be  old  and  ugly." 

Mr.  Macarthy  looked  at  him  with  a  fresh  interest.    "Have 


JOSEPHINE  PUTS  HER  HAIR  UP  215 

you  any  reason  to  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  the  Marchesa 
thinks  herself  old  and  ugly?" 

Adam  stared  back  at  him.  "Sure,  she  must  see  it  for 
herself,"  he  ejaculated. 

Mr.  Macarthy  smiled.  "Don't  be  too  sure,"  he  begged 
him.  And  then,  after  another  short  silence,  went  on :  "The 
ageing  of  the  body  is  pathetic,  but  not  necessarily  ugly: 
what  is  repellent  is  the  enfeeblement  or  debasement  of  the 
mind.  That  is  why  drunkenness  is  the  most  detestable  of 
all  vices :  it  debauches  the  mind." 

Several  minutes  passed  before  Adam  asked:  "Does  the 
Marchesa  drink?" 

To  which  his  guardian  urbanely  replied :  "If  you  have 
never  seen  her  do  it,  perhaps  she  does  not." 

"I've  sometimes  thought "  Adam  began. 

Mr.  Macarthy  broke  in:  "Thoughts  of  some  kinds  are 
best  kept  to  oneself." 

To  which  Adam  responded,  in  a  tone  of  protest:  "I'm 
very  fond  of  the  Marchesa  all  the  same." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "though  it  may  be  for  a 
different  reason."  And  then,  as  though  to  drop  the  con- 
versation, he  went  on :  "This  is  a  capital  little  book  to  read 
when  you  are  ill." 

Said  Adam  with  puzzled  eyes:  "Isn't  it  rather  depress- 
ing?" 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy ;  "it  illustrates  admirably 
the  futility  of  wishing  to  be  alive." 

Adam  looked  up  aghast:  "Is  it  futile  to  be  alive?"  he 
cried. 

Mr.  Macarthy  did  not  move.  "I  spoke  of  the  futility  of 
wishing  to  be  alive,"  he  said ;  "if  it  were  futile  to  be  alive, 
you  may  take  it  for  granted  that  we  should  all  be  dead." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
APPROACHING  THE  RUBICON 

"!F  it  were  futile  to  be  alive,  we  should  all  be  dead."  Adam 
had  not  infrequent  occasion  throughout  his  existence  to 
ponder  this  apophthegm,  but  never  more  than  in  the  days 
of  his  crescent  adolescence  in  the  year  that  followed  his 
leaving  Clongowes;  for  he  felt  the  will  to  life  and  to  death 
surging  like  alternate  currents  through  his  nerves,  and  exist- 
ence took  a  somber  glory  quite  unlike  the  mere  dismal 
melancholy  and  rank  pleasure  of  infancy.  He  was  at  last 
envisaging  life  from  the  standpoint  of  the  gently  born  and 
with  the  advantages  of  mixing  with  a  society  rarely  open 
to  one  so  young:  and  he  knew  more  about  the  world  already 
than  many  whom  he  met  would  ever  know.  And  he  was 
now  to  pass  the  most  guarded  gate  of  youth's  experience: 
to  find,  as  he  thought,  that  there  was  nothing  on  the  other 
side. 

This  event  was  ever  after  linked  in  his  memory  with 
Grafton  Street:  he  will  never  walk  up  or  down  that  street 
without  looking  for  something  that  he  may  not  find.  Dur- 
ing that  winter  he  would  sometimes  go  on  a  Saturday  by 
himself  to  a  matinee  at  the  Gaiety  Theater;  and  one  early 
March  afternoon  he  was  returning  down  Grafton  Street 
that  he  might  dine  with  his  guardian,  who  would  send  him 
home  to  bed  at  ten ;  for  Mr.  Macarthy  did  not  approve  of 
boys  of  Adam's  age  being  out  alone  in  the  Dublin  streets 
at  night. 

As  Adam  descended  the  western  pavement,  passing  Hol- 
lander's, which,  being  one  of  the  more  fashionable  shops, 
had  closed  its  doors  for  the  week-end,  a  bright  little  figure 

216 


APPROACHING  THE  RUBICON  217 

flashed  through  the  doorway  cut  in  the  lowered  roller  shut- 
ters, and  jostled  him  so  forcibly  that  he  might  have  fallen 
had  she  not  thrown  her  arms  round  him.  .  .  .  He  felt  the 
tiny  bag  she  carried  on  her  left  arm  strike  his  back  with  a 
chink  of  copper. 

"My  sweet  little  man,"  she  cried,  her  pretty  face,  with 
its  brilliant  coloring,  despite  the  sallow  skin,  and  ardent 
young  eyes  alive  with  an  apprehension  that  held,  perhaps, 
a  salt  of  mockery :  "There  now,  I  nearly  killed  you.  And 
I  wouldn't  hurt  anything  so  pretty  for  all  the  world."  She 
released  him,  adding:  "But,  sure,  there's  no  harm  done,  is 
there  ?  And  you  must  excuse  me,  for  I've  a  friend  waiting." 

She  disappeared  as  abruptly  as  she  had  entered  Adam's 
ken.  He  stared  into  vacancy,  long  and  eagerly,  desirous  to 
follow  her;  for  she  was  something  even  more  wonderful 
than  that  which  in  the  first  shock  of  encounter  she  seemed. 
She  was  not  only  a  pretty  and  fascinating  and  flattering 
young  lady,  who  had  held  him  momentarily  in  a  tender  em- 
brace, from  which  he  would  long  have  tingled  even  had  he 
not  seen  her  face:  but  she  was  Caroline  Brady,  his  first 
love,  who  had  kissed  him  on  the  lips  in  Dalkey  tunnel. 

Adam  stood  awhile,  galvanized :  then  moved  on  slowly 
down  past  the  Provost's  house  to  College  Green,  where  he 
took  a  tram  for  Findlater's  Church,  and  walked  up  Gar- 
diner's Row  still  glamorously  dazed.  It  was  only  as  he 
passed  Belvedere  that  he  fell  gloomy  again ;  for  he  remem- 
bered how  once  he  had  associated  the  school  with  the 
happiest  promise,  and,  later,  with  the  most  acute  and  shame- 
ful misery,  of  his  life.  He  wondered,  too,  how  it  was  that 
he  felt  himself  no  longer  to  be  the  same  boy  that  went  to 
Belvedere  and  was  proud  of  it  (for  that  boy  was  done  to 
death  by  Father  Tudor),  yet  did  feel  quite  conscious  of 
being  that  apparently  more  remote  character  who  had  been 
so  deliciously  alive  in  the  train  that  hurtled  down  Killiney 
Hill  to  Bray  ever  so  many  years  ago.  Why,  there  were 


218  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

boys  selling  papers  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel  this  evening 
who  had  not  been  born  when  Caroline  Brady  had  nestled 
so  close  to  him  in  Dalkey  tunnel,  yet  he  felt  now  as  he  did 
then,  only  more  so — and  without  being  kissed,  without  even 
being  recognized. 

He  tried  to  summon  up  courage  to  consult  his  guardian 
about  this,  the  subtlest  of  all  mysteries  he  could  imagine  on 
this  side  of  the  grave :  but  he  talked  in  vain  about  it  and 
about:  ending  with  a  flat  assertion  that  he  had  run  into 
the  arms  of  someone  that  he  thought  he  recognized. 

"Do  you  wish,"  Mr.  Macarthy  asked,  "that  you  had  been 
recognized  ?"  a  question  which,  while  it  forced  not  the  small- 
est confidence,  opened  a  road  for  the  fullest;  yet  Adam 
answered  only  that  he  did  not  know :  which  appeared  to 
him  to  be  true,  if  not  the  whole  truth.  So  his  guardian  was 
left  in  doubt  even  as  to  the  sex  of  the  body  that  had  met 
Adam's  in  Grafton  Street. 

His  guardian  had  given  him,  not  so  long  ago,  a  brief  rule 
of  the  road  to  be  followed  when  alone.  If  a  lady,  not  cer- 
tainly and  avowedly  elderly,  or  accompanied  by  children, 
should  accost  him  in  the  street,  he  was  to  stop  at  once  and 
answer,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  any  one  question  she 
might  put  to  him:  and,  that  done,  doff  his  hat,  by  way  of 
closing  the  conversation,  and  go  his  way.  If  she  offered  to 
prolong  the  interview,  he  was  politely  but  firmly  to  insist 
on  his  inability  to  stay  questioning.  On  no  account  was  he 
to  originate  a  conversation,  even  with  old  ladies. 

Adam,  temperamentally  shy  and  at  a  shy  age,  happily 
obeyed  his  guardian's  request :  though  he  found  it  whimsical 
of  Mr.  Macarthy  that  he  himself  listened  to  the  blandish- 
ments of  painted  women  with  as  patient  punctilio  as  to 
those  of  the  brilliant  Mrs.  Burns,  or  even  Babs  herself.  It 
is  true  that  nothing  came  of  it  but  Mr.  Macarthy  saying 
"No"  in  a  hundred  ingeniously  varied  circumlocutions  and 
in  a  tone  more  strictly  paternal  than  even  that  of  Herr 


APPROACHING  THE  RUBICON  219 

Behre,  whom  Adam  suspected  of  a  frivolous  side  not  to  be 
detected  in  his  guardian.  Mr.  O'Meagher,  when  so  held 
up  in  the  street,  was  sometimes  betrayed  into  rudeness,  or 
at  least  crude  and  discourteous  agitation :  "Go  away  now, 
go  away  now,  will  ye?"  he  would  groan.  "I  don't  want  to 
be  seen  talking  to  you,  much  less  anything  else."  Assuredly 
he  was  not  seen  to  the  best  advantage  in  the  role  of  St. 
Anthony ;  though  Adam  felt  his  trepidation  to  be  very  nat- 
ural and  easier  to  understand  than  the  detachment  of  Herr 
Behre  and  his  guardian. 

After  all,  resistance  to  temptation  was  a  serious  matter; 
Father  Innocent  had  told  him  so :  and  perhaps  Mr.  O'Meag- 
her was  tempted  the  same  as  he  might  be  himself  if  over- 
tures were  made  to  him  which  did  not  frighten  him  out  of 
his  wits,  or,  as  in  the  case  of  the  lady  in  the  park,  too  suc- 
cessfully dissemble  themselves.  He  thought  a  woman  with 
paint  on  her  face  as  terrifying  as  a  demon  in  a  pantomime : 
though,  to  be  sure,  it  was  more  of  the  paint  than  of  what 
lay  beneath  it  that  he  was  afraid.  Of  the  clean  and  comely 
ladies  he  met  in  his  guardian's  society  he  had  no  awe  what- 
ever. .  .  .  But,  then,  it  was  unthinkable  that  they  should 
offer  themselves  to  him.  .  .  .  Did  the  female  ever  offer  her- 
self to  the  male?  .  .  .  quite  of  her  own  accord?  He  re- 
membered once  at  the  Zoo  the  tigress  had  bit  the  tiger's 
tail,  as  a  kitten  might  bite  its  own,  and  then  assumed  the 
attitude  of  one  of  the  supposititious  Italian  nymphs  at  the 
National  Gallery.  .  .  .  Was  that  just  fun,  or  what?  .  .  . 
Father  Innocent  had  not  been  with  him  on  that  occasion. 
He  remembered  now  that  Father  Innocent,  after  all,  had 
never  brought  him  to  the  Zoo :  only  to  the  Botanic  Gardens. 
.  .  .  But  even  flowers  made  love  to  each  other.  Even  the 
lilies  the  boys  were  encouraged  to  bring  in  May  to  the 
shrine  of  the  Blessed  Virgin :  faith,  when  you  came  to  think 
of  it,  the  lilies,  for  all  their  cold  whiteness,  had  a  saucy- 
looking  heart  to  them.  .  .  .  He  wondered  why  they  were 


220  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

chosen  the  special  flower  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  .  .  .  And 
the  Rosa  Mystica:  wasn't  there  some  legend  about  that? 

Mr.  Macarthy  had  many  books  of  reference:  The  Golden 
Bough  was  a  queer  sort  of  book.  .  .  .  The  Blessed  Virgin 
was  the  mother  of  Christ:  that  was  what  Father  Innocent 
called  a  mystery :  a  great  many  things  were  mysteries  to 
Father  Innocent  .  .  .  Probably  Father  Innocent  had  never 
even  heard  of  The  Golden  Bough  :  He  thought  Darwin  worse 
than  Luther :  what  would  he  think  of  Haeckel  .  .  .  ?  Lady 
Bland  said  the  Blessed  Virgin  was  a  common  woman,  as 
common  as  Adam's  mother.  Was  Lady  Bland  nearer  the 
truth,  after  all,  than  Father  Innocent?  He  had  called  her 
"the  worst  woman  in  Dublin".  Was  that  because  he  was 
afraid  of  her  cleverness?  .  .  .  Mr.  Macarthy  said  clever- 
ness was  a  sort  of  religion.  But  Adam  knew  no  one  so 
unmistakably  religious  as  Father  Innocent,  and  he  was  not 
at  all  clever.  He  had  killed  himself  in  a  mad  fit.  Madness 
was  a  sort  of  stupidity.  ...  Or  was  it  too  great  cleverness  ? 
.  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  your  cleverness  and  your  stupidity 
meeting  with  a  crash  and  upsetting  you.  .  .  .  He  had  met 
Caroline  Brady  with  a  crash,  there  in  Grafton  Street.  That 
had  upset  him,  but  she  didn't  seem  upset  in  the  least. 

Caroline  Brady  had  said  that  she  had  a  friend  waiting 
for  her.  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  it  was  Miss  Fallon,  her  name 
came  back  to  him  now,  the  other  little  girl  in  the  train  who 
ate  all  the  sweets,  and  he  used  to  think  pretty.  .  .  .  He 
wouldn't  think  her  pretty  now.  Caroline  had  grown  up  very 
pretty,  as  pretty  as  Josephine  herself,  almost  as  pretty  as 
Barbara  Burns,  but  quite  different.  She  hadn't  Barbara's 
well-cut  features,  nor  Josephine's  red  hair,  nor  that  some- 
thing about  Josephine  which  made  her  Josephine.  .  .  .  He 
thought  about  them  all  quite  differently.  .  .  .  But  he  did 
think  about  them  all.  Bluebeard  was  a  bad  man :  Father 
Innocent  had  said  so,  and  there  seemed  no  doubt  about  it. 
.  .  .  He  must  have  been  a  fascinating  man  too,  or  else  very 


APPROACHING  THE  RUBICON  221 

rich.  If  you  were  rich  you  could  do  anything,  and  even 
the  most  beautiful  and  aristocratic  and  virtuous  ladies 
would  give  themselves  to  you,  just  as  if  you  were  a  sort  of 
god.  You  could  do  exactly  as  you  liked  if  only  you  were 
rich  enough.  Bernard  Shaw,  who  was  a  Dublin  man  him- 
self, and,  therefore,  to  be  depended  on,  advised  everybody 
to  get  rich  as  soon  as  they  could,  without  being  too  scrupu- 
lous as  to  how  they  did  it. 

Yet  Mr.  Macarthy  told  him  that  Shaw  himself  was  the 
most  scrupulous  man  he  knew  about  what  he  did,  though 
he  thought  him  unscrupulous  about  what  he  said.  Too 
whimsical,  and  with  a  blind  spot  of  Puritanism,  whatever 
that  meant.  But  he  was  better  than  Oscar  Wilde,  better 
than  all  the  other  Irish  writers  put  together,  saving  only 
A.E.,  the  one  whose  hands  were  steady  enough  to  speed  the 
plow.  .  .  .  Shaw  was  a  fine  fellow,  and  ''Caesar  and 
Cleopatra"  the  sort  of  play  that  Adam  would  like  to  see: 
but  even  Shaw's  Caesar  would  not  quite  understand  what 
Adam  felt  about  Josephine  O'Meagher  and  Caroline  Brady, 
and  perhaps  Barbara  Burns  and  some  others.  Nor  could 
Mr.  Macarthy  help  him;  for,  under  his  cavalier  laugh,  he 
was  an  austere  man,  and  never  kissed  more  than  a  lady's 
hand. 

The  impact  with  Caroline  Brady  woke  Adam  with  a  shock 
to  the  knowledge  that,  for  all  his  great  and  wise  and  kindly 
friends,  he  was,  after  all,  a  lonely  lad.  And  why  lonely,  if 
not  for  his  lass?  .  .  .  And  had  not  Fate  and  Nature  too 
decreed  his  lass  to  be  Caroline  Brady?  .  .  .  True,  she  was 
older  than  he,  but  Josephine  O'Meagher  was  older  still,  and 
consecrated  to  a  vestal  life,  while  Caroline  was  in  the  world, 
and  warm,  and  still  to  be  enjoyed  ...  By  him?  .  .  .  Who 
was  the  friend  she  said  was  waiting  for  her?  .  .  .  Next 
Saturday,  at  the  same  hour,  he  would  be  there  to  see. 

So,  a  fortnight  from  their  first  meeting,  when  the  Gaiety 
Theater  was  emptying  its  matinee  audience,  he  found  an 


222  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

excuse  to  be  wandering  up  and  down  Grafton  Street,  from 
King  to  Suffolk  Street,  but  mainly  outside  the  closing  shut- 
ters of  Hollander's.  And,  just  about  a  quarter  past  five, 
as  Caroline  Brady  pranced  out  through  the  forbidding  bar- 
rier, looking  straight  at  him  with  recognition  in  her  smile, 
a  spick  and  span  and  lithe  Hussar,  all  frogged  blue  tunic, 
cherry  breeches,  and  jingling  spurs,  whisked  her  away  be- 
fore Adam's  eyes.  And  he,  pursuing,  saw  them  upon  an 
outside  car,  hailed  at  the  corner  of  Stephen's  Green,  bowl 
gaily  out  of  sight. 

Adam  thought  she  looked  back  at  him  once  and  waved  the 
little  bag :  but  he  had  the  sense  to  tell  himself  that  this  was 
fancy,  and  that  the  Hussar  had  got  Caroline  Brady  clutched 
as  fast  as  his  other  rival  had  clipped  Josephine  O'Meagher. 
.  .  .  Something  bitter  scored  his  throat  as  he  watched  the 
receding  dust  that  followed  their  wheels,  and  he  wished 
suddenly  that  Caroline  Brady  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
VISITORS  FOR  MRS.  MACFADDEN 

THE  thought  of  Josephine  O'Meagher  always  enraged  Adam 
against  the  Church:  the  thought  of  Caroline  Brady  tem- 
porarily turned  him  towards  it.  He  told  Mr.  Macarthy  that 
he  would  like  to  be  a  priest,  and  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  "Pray 
do,  by  all  means."  Which  was  not  the  answer  he  expected. 
Nor  was  he  altogether  pleased  when  his  guardian  offered 
him  every  assistance.  He  was  not  yet  prepared  to  take 
any  active  step  towards  the  novitiate.  But,  making  his 
Easter  Duty  at  the  eleventh  hour  that  year,  he  did  not  go  to 
confession  to  Father  Steele,  being  shy,  he  knew  not  exactly 
why,  of  confiding  to  him  his  new  sin.  He  carried  this  to 
the  Church  beside  Westland  Row  Station,  and  told  his 
thoughts  of  Caroline  Brady  within  a  biscuit  throw  of  the 
point  whence  the  pair  of  them  had  started  on  their  delect- 
able journey  to  perdition. 

Adam's  story  was  hearkened  to  by  a  fervid  young  priest, 
who  asked  him  leading  questions  about  his  whole  life,  which 
it  strained  Adam's  vanity  to  answer  truly.  Ultimately  this 
sage  young  clerk  admonished  him,  a  little  in  the  manner  of 
Father  Ignatius,  but  less  tactfully,  that  he  should  beware  of 
mere  worldly  wisdom,  and  remember  that,  after  all,  a  boy's 
best  friend  must  be  his  mother:  so  long,  of  course,  as  his 
mother  was  a  communicant  of  the  Catholic  Church.  So 
Adam,  though  half  perceptive  of  the  absurdity  of  his  con- 
fessor's advice,  paid  his  mother  a  visit  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  Sunday  he  had  made  his  Easter  Duty. 

In  order  to  go  there  it  was  necessary  to  mystify  his  guar- 
dian ;  for  Mr.  Macarthy,  being  one  of  the  worldly-wise  Adam 

223 


224  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

was  cautioned  to  beware  of,  did  not  approve  of  his  going 
to  Pleasant  Street,  even  to  see  his  mother :  though  he  never 
referred  to  Mrs.  Macfadden  at  all  if  not  with  respect.  She 
had,  however,  no  place  in  their  conversation,  and  very  little 
in  her  son's  mind.  If  the  good  priest  at  St.  Andrew's  had 
not  counselled  it,  Adam  might  never  have  seen  her  again. 
But  on  this  particular  Sunday  he  felt  that  it  was  his  duty, 
as  a  good  little  Catholic,  to  disobey  his  guardian  and  hum- 
bug himself  into  a  sort  of  tenderness  for  his  mother. 

Adam  had  lost  all  admiration  for  Pleasant  Street :  but  he 
was  gratified  to  note  that  No.  7  was  certainly  the  best-kept 
house  in  it,  with  fresh  paint  and  clean  windows :  though  the 
curtains  were  a  trifle  dark  and  gloomy,  so  that  you  could 
not  see  the  red  papered  walls  from  the  street,  nor  could  the 
sun  strike  through  to  the  mirrors  that  hung  on  them.  Adam 
thought  mirrors  looked  well  in  a  room,  and  so  did  Mr. 
O'Meagher:  but  Mr.  Macarthy  did  not:  and  Herr  Behre 
said  they  were  only  suited  to  a  public-house.  If  you  had 
a  lot  of  glasses  in  a  room,  that  made  the  room  look  bigger : 
and  the  bigger  the  room,  the  finer  it  looked :  that  was  com- 
mon sense.  But  Mr.  Macarthy  said  that  anything  that  de- 
ceived the  eye  was  false  art.  .  .  .  Even  the  Ha-ha  at  Clon- 
gowes  was  false  art,  but  everyone  else,  even  the  Rector  and 
Father  Bernard  James,  thought  it  beautiful.  .  .  .  He  was 
a  very  austere  man,  Mr.  Macarthy,  more  like  a  Protestant 
than  a  Catholic,  and  the  only  symbol  of  Christianity  he  had 
on  his  own  walls  was  that  ugly  little  crucifix  over  the  bed- 
room mantelpiece. 

Mr.  O'Toole  had  furnished  the  house  in  Pleasant  Street, 
and  even  if  he  was  a  blackguard,  which,  despite  his  fine 
clothes,  Adam  suspected,  he  really  had  an  elegant  if  high- 
pitched  taste.  The  best  rooms  at  No.  7  Pleasant  Street, 
were  all  red  and  gold,  like  a  cigar  divan  .  .  .  the  sort  of 
thing  you  associated  with  the  splendor  of  the  East.  Even 
Mrs.  Macfadden,  promoted  from  the  kitchen  to  the  front 


VISITORS  FOR  MRS.  MACFADDEN          225 

parlor,  had  a  red  and  gold  setting  to  her  now  somewhat 
obese  charms.  But  her  room,  between  the  mirrors,  was 
hung  with  Holy  pictures  and  brackets  holding  scarlet  and 
gold  saints,  supplied  by  an  eminent  firm  of  saint-makers  to 
the  Pro-Cathedral,  whose  shop  window  round  the  corner 
had,  so  long  as  Adam  remembered,  been  a  great  attraction 
to  this  good  woman. 

The  widow  lay  in  bed,  suffering  not  only  from  her  feet 
but  some  other  disorder  which  Adam  could  not  identify  by 
her  description  of  the  symptoms:  he  understood  that  her 
heart  was  affected,  and  so,  while  the  medicine  bottles  beside 
her  bed  were  but  lightly  tapped,  the  whisky  bottle  under  it 
was  empty.  She  wore  a  red  dressing-gown,  with  a  red  shawl 
over  that,  and  another  over  her  head,  concealing  any  hair 
she  may  have  had  on  it :  but  there  was  plenty  on  the  dressing- 
table  mixed  up  with  candles,  a  greasy  plate  with  knife  and 
fork  clinging  to  it,  a  porter  bottle,  and  various  articles  more 
strictly  appertaining  to  a  lady's  toilet.  On  the  bed  lay  The 
Police  News,  the  Sunday  Herald,  and  The  Life  of  St.  Kevin 
of  Glendalough  by  a  Nun,  modestly  preserving  her  anonym- 
ity. "A  beautiful  book,"  said  Mrs.  Macfadden:  "he 
was  a  lovely  saint,  St.  Kevin.  No  one  ever  saw  the  like 
of  him." 

"I  should  have  thought  Father  Innocent  was  a  bit  like 
him,"  Adam  ventured. 

His  mother  snorted  indignantly.  "Will  you  look  at  the 
pictures!"  she  cried,  pitching  the  book  at  him;  "just  look 
at  the  pictures,  and  tell  me  whether  a  grand  fellow  like  that 
was  like  that  worm  of  an  Innocent  Feeley.  What  woman 
would  go  chasing  Innocent  Feeley,  I'd  like  to  know?  Not 
even  Emily  Robinson  did  that,  though  she  was  always 
making  a  fool  of  herself  over  the  clergy."  She  pulled  her- 
self up.  "Kevin  was  much  more  like  Macfadden,  only  he 
had  the  advantage  of  him  in  not  taking  to  drink,  and  so  kept 
his  figure.  .  .  .  He  was  a  great  loss,  poor  dear.  O'Toole 


226  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

was  never  a  patch  on  him.     And  the  one's  as  bad  as  the 
other  in  every  way  but  drink." 

Adam  was  not  edified  by  his  mother's  conversation,  and 
wondered  what  the  good  young  priest  of  St.  Andrew's  West- 
land  Row,  would  have  made  of  it.  He  rose  to  go :  "I  hope 
you'll  be  better  soon,"  he  said  mechanically. 

"No  thanks  to  anyone  but  Jesus  and  the  Holy  Saints  if 
I  am,"  she  retorted.  "It's  little  anyone  cares  in  this  house 
if  I'm  living  or  dead.  And  I  wish  I'd  never  seen  O'Toole. 
Macfadden  was  the  finest  man  that  ever  stepped,  except 
St.  Kevin,  and  it's  hard  to  believe  what  they  say  about  him, 
though  we  went  near  Glendalough  on  our  honeymoon  to  a 
public  I  remember  well.  Macfadden  swore  at  them  for 
being  out  of  Guinness.  He  let  great  curses,  did  Macfadden. 
It  was  grand  to  hear  him." 

"You  didn't  think  it  grand  when  he  swore  at  you,"  said 
Adam  with  sudden  bitterness. 

"He  was  worth  two  O'Tooles,  anyhow,"  returned  the 
widow :  "he  was  a  man,  every  inch  of  him,  not  a  crawling 
snake  with  a  soft  tongue.  No  one  cares  a  damn  for  me  but 
St.  Kevin  and  the  Holy  Saints." 

As  Adam  gazed  at  the  form  upon  the  bed,  he  shuddered 
at  the  thought  that  he  had  been  borne  within  it.  And  the 
good  priest  at  Westland  Row  counselled  him  that  here  was 
his  best  friend;  for  she  was  his  own  mother  and  a  com- 
municant of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church:  her  bed  was  sur- 
rounded by  the  saints  that  adorned  it,  her  rosary  beads  were 
festooned  round  one  of  the  knobs,  furtive  scapulars  peeped 
through  the  rents  in  her  red  dressing-gown,  and  her  Sunday 
reading  was  of  the  Hageology. 

His  acrid  thought  was  broken  by  an  exclamation  from 
the  sufferer.  "Glory  be  to  God,  if  there  isn't  a  ring  at  the 
door,  and  O'Toole  and  Mrs.  Reddington  both  out,  and  me 
not  daring  to  put  one  foot  out  of  bed,  even  if  I  didn't  fall 
with  weakness." 


VISITORS  FOR  MRS.  MACFADDEN          227 

"Will  I  open  it?"  asked  Adam,  glad  of  the  excuse  to  go. 

The  widow  hesitated,  as  though  fumbling  through  crossed 
thoughts  in  her  mind :  "Sure,  I  suppose  you  might  as  well. 
After  all,  what  does  it  matter.  .  .  .  Ah,  bad  luck  to  your 
dirty  importunity !"  This  aside  was  called  for  by  a  peal  of 
the  bell :  "If  it's  a  lady,  you  can  show  her  in  to  me  here. 
If  it's  anyone  else,  tell  them  they're  making  a  great  mis- 
take. No  matter  what  they  say,  you  can  tell  them  that 
.  .  .  And  that  it's  Sunday,  and  they've  come  to  the  wrong 
house."  Another  peal  at  the  bell — "Oh,  for  God's  sake,  tell 
them  to  go  to  hell !" 

Adam  closed  his  mother's  door  behind  him  and  trod  list- 
lessly down  the  hall :  there  was  a  pungent  smell  in  it,  re- 
minding him  of  the  cat  that  had  helped  him  to  eat  his  raw 
goose  years  ago  in  the  attic  up  above.  He  had  never  had 
the  heart  to  revisit  it.  For  the  first  time,  in  these  few  steps 
between  his  mother's  bedroom  and  the  hall-door,  he  thought 
of  life  as  a  merely  sordid,  ugly,  and  meaningless  thing.  How 
futile  to  wish  to  be  alive !  .  .  .  Yet  Mr.  Macarthy  held  that 
life  was  not  futile:  Mr.  Macarthy  had  forbidden  him  to 
come  to  Pleasant  Street.  .  .  .  Well,  he  was  leaving  it  now 
for  the  last  time.  He  wished  he  could  leave  Dublin  alto- 
gether. .  .  .  There  was  another  peal  at  the  bell  as  he  opened 
the  door. 

Clinging  tipsily  to  the  bell  was  a  handsome  young  Jew,  in 
the  tartan  and  white  summer  tunic  of  the  Seaforth  High- 
landers :  his  left  hand  clutched  at  the  waist  of  a  young  and 
pretty  girl,  who,  as  her  eyes  met  Adam's,  screamed,  flung 
off  the  soldier's  hand,  and  fled  down  the  steps,  and  away 
from  the  direction  of  Maryborough  Street,  towards  Summer 
Hill.  Across  the  street  marched  Mr.  O'Toole,  attired  in  the 
height  of  fashion,  as  it  had  been  prescribed  for  Punchestown 
once  upon  a  time. 

Adam's  cap  was  in  his  hand  as  he  left  his  mother's  room : 
it  was  still  in  his  hand  as  he  sprang  down  the  steps,  between 


228  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

the  soldier  and  his  godfather,  and  set  out  also  to  run  in  the 
direction  of  Summer  Hill.  Behind  him  he  heard  Mr. 
O'Toole's  voice  raised  in  indignant  expostulation. 

"You're  entirely  mistaken.  ...  Of  a  Sunday  itself.  .  .  . 
More  shame  to  you.  ...  I  seen  her  meself.  ...  A  girl  of 
that  age.  ...  A  respectable  house.  ...  A  soldier  in  uni- 
form. ...  Be  off  now,  me  fine  fellow,  or  I'll  call  the 
police." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
LOVERS'  MEETING 

THE  way  to  Summer  Hill  was  also  one  of  the  ways  to 
Mountjoy  Square,  if  you  turned  up  Gardiner  Street.  But 
Adam  did  not  turn  up  Gardiner  Street :  he  ran  on  and  on, 
so  long  as  he  saw  a  girlish  form  tripping  in  front  of  him,  a 
little  bag  swinging  on  the  left  arm.  Suddenly  the  strap  of 
this  burst,  and  the  bag  planed  lightly  down  to  earth.  The 
girl  did  not  instantly  notice  her  loss,  and  it  was  in  Adam's 
hand  when  she  looked  back  for  it.  When  she  saw  him  he 
thought  she  would  go  running  off  again ;  but,  as  he  held 
it  up  reassuringly,  she  turned  back  slowly  to  meet  him.  He 
studied  her  as  she  drew  near. 

"Aren't  you  Anastatia  Fallen?"  he  demanded. 

She  tossed  her  head  indignantly.  "Whatever  put  such  an 
idea  into  your  head?" 

Confusion  seized  Adam  once  again,  though  he  had  shaken 
it  off  as  he  ran  after  her:  "I  meant  to  say  Caroline  Brady." 

"Why  didn't  you  say  what  you  meant?"  she  returned, 
guilefully  dissembling  her  own  agitation. 

"Don't  you  remember  Anastatia  Fallen?"  asked  Adam, 
his  way  of  asking  if  she  remembered  him. 

"I  do  not,"  said  Miss  Brady,  taking  her  purse,  "unless  she 
was  the  greedy  little  beast  that  ate  sweets  when  someone  I 
used  to  know  was  on  for  a  bit  of  fun  in  Dalkey  tunnel?" 

"Was  that  fun  ?"  queried  Adam  solemnly. 

"What  else?"  asked  Miss  Brady:  "everything  between 
girls  and  boys  is  a  bit  of  fun." 

"And  between  men  and  women  ?"  Adam's  tone  was  now 
gloomy. 

229 


23o  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"It's  a  lovely  day  for  this  time  of  the  year,"  was  all  the 
answer  he  drew  from  Miss  Brady. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Adam's  eyes  that  wanted  to 
look  into  hers  failed  and  wandered  away  to  perceive  that 
they  were  on  the  canal  bridge  near  the  Dollymount  road. 
Miss  Brady,  seeing  that  she  had  the  better  of  him,  asked  him 
his  name. 

"Didn't  you  know?"  he  exclaimed;  "Adam  Macfadden." 

"How  would  I  know?"  she  answered.  "You  won't  tell 
me  you've  done  anything  anybody  has  ever  heard  of,  at 
your  age." 

Adam  tried  to  think  of  something  he  could  boast  of,  but 
could  recall  nothing  more  thrilling  than  his  encounter  with 
Father  Tudor.  "I've  done  things  that  would  astonish  you," 
he  said  vaguely. 

"D'you  mean  in  Pleasant  Street  ?"  she  asked,  and  a  goose 
chose  that  moment  to  walk  over  Adam's  grave. 

"That  was  my  mother's  house.  .  .  .  What  did  you  want 
there?"  he  said. 

"What  does  your  mother  do  there?"  she  rejoined  tartly. 

It  occurred  to  Adam  for  the  first  time  that  he  really 
did  not  know  what  his  mother  did  there.  "My  mother 
lives  there,"  he  said,  and  added  explanatorily:  "with  Mr. 
O'Toole." 

Miss  Brady  smirked.  "Go  on !  You  don't  tell  me.  .  .  . 
With  Mr.  O'Toole.  .  .  .  And  you  living  there  all  the  time?" 

Adam  broke  in  with  undisguised  snobbery:  "I  don't  live 
there.  I  live  in  Mountjoy  Square."  He  was  shocked  to 
hear  himself  tell  this  lie. 

Miss  Brady  betrayed  a  livelier  interest.  "What  part?** 
and  Adam  had  pleasure  in  giving  her  the  very  number. 

"I  know  who  lives  there,"  said  she,  and  described  Mr. 
Macarthy  recognizably,  though  not  as  Adam  had  ever  seen 
him.  "And  he's  your  guardian  ?"  she  said  at  length,  adding 
with  a  sigh :  "And  indeed  isn't  it  well  to  be  you." 


LOVERS'  MEETING  231 

"It  is,"  said  Adam,  "but  what  makes  you  think  so?" 

"I  just  like  the  look  of  him,"  said  Miss  Brady. 

"What  do  you  like  about  it?"  asked  Adam  jealously.  "I 
think  he  looks  just  ordinary." 

"Not  a  bit  of  him,"  she  returned,  "he's  quite  different 
from  other  fellows." 

"You  call  him  a  fellow  ?"  Adam  protested,  "but  I  can  tell 
you  he's  getting  on  in  years." 

"I  don't  mind  that,"  said  Miss  Brady,  "I  never  cared  for 
hobbledehoys." 

Adam's  heart  sank.    "Would  you  call  me  a  hobbledehoy  ?" 

"You  will  be  in  another  year  or  two,"  was  the  intention- 
ally crushing  answer. 

"I'm  not  a  child,"  he  claimed. 

"Not  in  your  talk,  perhaps,"  she  admitted. 

"Not  in  any  way,"  he  urged.    And  their  eyes  met. 

"You're  a  little  like  your  guardian  yourself  in  a  small 
way,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"I've  a  handsomer  nose,"  Adam  claimed. 

"I  like  his  nose,"  she  returned  provokingly. 

"And  the  nose  of  that  boozy  Scotch  soldier,"  he  snorted. 

Miss  Brady  changed  color,  but  answered  calmly:  "That 
was  only  a  bit  of  fun.  .  .  .  But  he'd  hold  of  my  arm  and 
wouldn't  let  go." 

"Why  didn't  you  call  the  police,"  Adam  insisted. 

"Oh,  what  good  are  the  police  to  anyone?"  She  swung 
her  bag  pensively.  "Besides,  I  couldn't  get  the  poor  lad 
into  trouble  for  a  bit  of  fun." 

"He  wasn't  a  poor  lad,"  snapped  Adam,  "he  was  a  Scotch- 
man, and  a  Jew  into  the  bargain,  and  a  soldier." 

"What  makes  you  think  he  was  a  Jew?"  Miss  Brady  asked 
with  anxiety,  real  or  affected.  "I  thought  he  was  in  the 
Black  Watch." 

"He  wasn't  in  the  Black  Watch,"  said  Adam.  "He  was 
a  Seaforth  Highlander.  But  there  are  very  few  Highlanders 


232  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

in  the  Highland  regiments,  and  if  he  was  Scotch  at  all,  he 
was  likely  a  Glasgow  Jew." 

"What  a  lot  you  know,"  said  Miss  Brady  with  open- 
mouthed  admiration  that  seemed  like  an  echo  of  the  past. 
"Where  do  you  get  it  all  ?" 

"Mr.  Macarthy,"  said  Adam,  "knows  everything  in  the 
world." 

"Of  course  he  does,"  said  he,  "but  even  when  I  met  you 
at  Westland  Row,  you  know,  even  then  you  knew  a  lot. 
.  .  .  And  he  wasn't  your  guardian  then,  was  he  ?" 

"No,"  said  Adam,  "he  was  not."  He  blurted  suddenly: 
"If  he  had  been  I  guess  we  would  never  have  met." 

"If  Ifs  and  Ands  were  pots  and  cans,"  sang  Miss  Brady, 
and  looked  at  him. 

"I  ought  to  be  getting  home  to  my  tea.  .  .  .  Come  along, 
will  you?" 

This  was  the  first  time  in  Adam's  life  that  such  an  invi- 
tation had  been  directly  given  him.  Miss  Brady  noted  and 
perhaps  misinterpreted  his  hesitation ;  for  she  added  queru- 
lously: "You'll  meet  my  Pa  and  Ma.  It's  quite  .  .  ." 

"Quite  what  ?"  asked  Adam. 

"It's  not  like  Pleasant  Street." 

"How?" 

"My  father  and  mother  are  very  good  Catholics."  She 
seemed  proud  of  this  piece  of  information. 

"So  is  my  mother,"  said  Adam  grimly,  "her  bedroom's 
full  of  holy  pictures." 

"Go  on !"  chirped  Miss  Brady,  "what  a  queer  family  you 
are." 

"Oh,  I  don't  hang  holy  pictures  in  my  bedroom,"  Adam 
hesitated  to  assert,  "I  think  they're  silly." 

"Why  ?"  Miss  Brady  asked,  somewhat  disconcertingly. 

"Well,  they're  not  the  sort  of  thing  a  man  would  have," 
said  Adam.  "Mr.  Macarthy  has  none  in  his  bedroom." 

"What  does  Mr.  Macarthy  have  in  his  bedroom?"  she 


LOVERS'  MEETING  233 

asked  with  open  eagerness  for  the  answer;  but  when  in- 
formed of  the  leading  features  she  only  remarked  that  she 
found  his  taste  somewhat  gloomy.  "He  isn't  any  sort  of  a 
priest?"  she  demanded. 

Adam  expressed  his  moral  certainty  that  though  he  might 
have  been  a  priest  he  was  not.  "Nor  married?"  No,  he 
thought  not.  "Nor  divorced  ?"  Almost  certainly  not.  "You 
won't  tell  me  he  has  nothing  to  do  with  girls  at  all?"  she 
cried,  rather  more  loudly  than  was  discreet;  for  they  were 
walking  now  in  a  frequented  part  of  the  North  Circular 
Road,  that  part  from  which  Adam  had  seen  a  certain  funeral 
approach. 

He  had  forgotten  that  funeral  as  he  unfolded  his  theory 
and  account  of  his  guardian's  several  platonic  friendships. 
He  found  it  necessary  to  explain  to  her  the  meaning  of  the 
word  platonic.  The  only  thing  I  ever  heard  of  Platonic," 
she  expostulated,  "was  that  he  and  old  Socrates  didn't  care 
for  girls  at  all.  Though  Socrates  was  married,  of 
course,  wasn't  he?  To  that  scolding  old  frump,  Elsie 
Somebody  ?" 

"The  name  of  Socrates's  wife  was  Xantippe,"  said  Adam. 

Miss  Brady  shook  her  head:  "That  wasn't  the  name.  I 
tell  you  what  .  .  .  Elsie  Somebody  had  a  friend  called 
Aphasia,  I've  got  that  right  anyhow." 

Adam  laughed  with  scholarly  contempt.  "Aphasia  in- 
deed !  Aphasia  is  a  sort  of  disease  of  the  brain.  ...  I  sup- 
pose you  mean  Aspasia?", 

"Well,  Aspasia,  then,"  Miss  Brady  allowed  with  not  too 
good  a  grace.  "Who  was  Aspasia  ?" 

Adam,  who  of  late  had  taken  to  carrying  a  bamboo  cane, 
examined  it  critically,  so  that  he  might  appear  more  like  a 
man  of  the  world:  "Aspasia,"  he  said,  'Aspasia  was  an 
Athenian  lady." 

"What  sort  of  a  lady  is  that  ?"  his  companion  asked,  look- 
ing down  on  him  sideways. 


234  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"An  Athenian  lady  means  a  lady  of  Athens,"  he  said 
gravely. 

Miss  Brady  looked  at  him  harder,  and  he  looked  harder 
at  his  cane.  She  said:  "Is  that  all?" 

"That's  all,"  said  Adam. 

"Then,"  Miss  Brady  suggested,  "I  suppose  you'd  call  me 
a  Dublinian  lady?" 

Adam  supposed  a  trifle  dubiously  that  he  would. 

"Perhaps  you  wouldn't  think  me  a  lady?"  said  Miss 
Brady,  "because  I  work  at  Hollander's.  But  I'm  in  the 
showroom  where  they  have  a  baronet's  daughter  for  a  man- 
nikin,  and  she  treats  me  like  a  perfect  lady,  and  kisses  me 
every  time  she  sees  me,  and  says  I'm  quite  her  equal  if  not 
better.  And  she  has  the  loveliest  neck  and  shoulders,  and 
it  makes  me  sick  to  think  she's  a  Protestant." 

"Why  would  that  make  you  sick?"  asked  Adam. 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  think  that  anyone  kissing  you  was 
going  to  hell!"  she  exclaimed  hotly,  adding:  "Unless,  of 
course,  it  was  just  a  bit  of  fun." 

"No  one  goes  to  hell  for  a  bit  of  fun,"  said  Adam  reassur- 
ingly. 

"Not  if  they've  time  to  repent,"  Miss  Brady  agreed,  "but 
you  do  right  enough  if  you're  a  Protestant.  ...  I  was  try- 
ing to  explain  that  to  the  fellow  in  the  Black  Watch.  .  .  ." 

"Seaforth  Highlanders,"  Adam  corrected  her. 

"Seaforth  Highlanders,"  she  said  dutifully,  "I  was  trying 
to  explain  that  to  him  when  he  got  me  by  the  arm  and  said 
only  Presbyterians  could  be  saved,  and  as  I  wasn't  a  Pres- 
byterian I  might  as  well  enjoy  myself  while  I  could." 

"And  I  suppose,"  snorted  Adam  indignantly,  whipping  a 
sardine  tin  off  the  pavement,  "I  suppose  he  thought  you 
could  enjoy  yourself  with  him?" 

"I  suppose  he  did,"  said  Miss  Brady,  "and  I  suppose  you 
think  I  could  enjoy  myself  with  you?" 


LOVERS'  MEETING  235 

"If  you  don't  think  so,"  returned  Adam,  "why  did  you 
ask  me  to  see  you  home?" 

"That  was  just  a  bit  of  fun,"  said  the  charmer,  and  Adam 
found  they  were  no  longer  in  the  Circular  Road.  "Here 
we  are." 

She  opened  the  creaking  gate  of  a  narrow-chested  little 
house,  as  respectable  as  an  undertaker  and  drearier  than  a 
mute;  for,  though  facing  south  it  was  so  beset  by  other 
people's  dead  walls  that  no  sun  could  strike  below  the 
eaves.  The  street  was  called  Spring  Avenue,  but  it  led 
nowhere. 

Adam's  heart  quailed,  and  Miss  Brady  did  not  fail  to  notice 
the  dullness  in  his  eyes.  "You  don't  want  to  come  in  ?"  she 
said.  "My  house  isn't  good  enough  for  you.  .  .  .  It's  better 
than  Pleasant  Street.  .  .  .  Only  I'm  not  kept  by  someone 
living  in  Mountjoy  Square.  ...  I  wish  I  was." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Adam  babbled.  "I'm  sure  this  is 
a  very  nice  house.  I'd  like  to  come  in,  only  my  guar- 
dian. .  .  ." 

"You'd  think  your  guardian  wore  apron-strings,"  she 
pouted,  then  whispered  in  his  ear:  "Come  in  now,  and  I'll 
do  something  will  make  you  think  of  Dalkey  tunnel." 

As  though  in  obedience  to  the  magic  of  a  cabalistic  word 
Adam's  legs,  as  thin  as  Miss  Brady's  own,  passed  through 
her  creaking  gate-way,  over  the  two  slabs  to  her  hall  door. 
Astonishing  was  the  melancholy  of  that  hall  door,  contrasted 
with  the  triumph  in  Caroline  Brady's  brown  eyes  and  tawny 
cheeks  as  she  knocked  at  it. 

But  the  figure  that  opened  it  went  with  the  door.  She 
was  dark  like  Caroline  but  pale,  and  her  brown  eyes  were 
pale  too,  and  dull  like  the  paleness  of  puddled,  rather  chalky 
clay :  her  hair,  too,  had  chalky  streaks  in  it :  and  she  wore 
clothes  which  made  Adam  take  her  to  be  recently  widowed 
and  convinced  him  that  it  was  she  whom  he  had  seen  with 


236  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Caroline  in  the  mourning  coach.  He  felt  unpleasantly  cer- 
tain that  in  some  unaccountable  way  she  was  Caroline's 
mother,  and  he  wondered  if  her  father  should  prove  to  be 
the  man  he  associated  with  the  memory  of  a  proprietorial 
black  glove.  Caroline  said  her  father  lived  also  in  that  mean 
sepulcher  of  a  house.  Even  with  Caroline's  warm  body 
pressing  against  his  in  the  rat-hole  of  a  hall,  he  could  not 
think  of  Dalkey  tunnel.  He  could  not  think  of  anything  but 
the  beetles  that  used  to  crawl  on  the  rocks  at  Sandycove 
when  he  sat  there  long  ago  of  a  summer  evening  with 
Josephine  O'Meagher.  He  remembered  that  so  long  as  she 
held  his  hand  he  could  pretend  not  to  be  afraid  of  the  beetles : 
but  when  she  was  called  by  her  mother  into  the  house,  he 
ran  after  her  like  mad. 

Caroline  Brady  was  not  a  bit  like  Josephine  O'Meagher : 
even  her  kiss,  he  could  still  remember,  tasted  quite  different. 
But  Mrs.  Brady  reminded  him  of  everything  he  disliked  (not 
a  great  deal)  in  Josephine's  mother;  and  Mr.  Brady,  whom 
they  now  discovered  reading  the  Catholic  Herald,  in  the 
front  parlor,  the  walls  of  which  were  covered  with  photo- 
graphs of  gravestones  and  memorial  cards,  did  not  live  up 
to  the  promise  of  his  proprietorial  black  glove.  He  himself 
was  as  one  long  dead  but  too  insignificant  to  call  for  burial. 
Adam  could  as  little  think  of  him  as  being  Caroline's  Pa  as 
he  could  think  of  the  late  Mr.  Macfadden  as  being  his  own 
father. 

Caroline  introduced  Adam  as  "My  little  friend  Macarthy. 
Lives  in  Mountjoy  Square.  He  was  with  me  at  the  Nuns 
at  Bray  when  we  were  kids.  I  knew  him  at  once  when  I 
saw  him  after  Twelve  O'clock.  We  went  for  a  walk  and 
missed  lunch.  So  I  brought  him  home  to  tea." 

Caroline's  parents  asked  no  question :  the  mother  provided 
nasty  tea  and  nastier  thin  bread  and  margarine.  She  seemed 
very  fond  of  Caroline.  ^Mentioned  that  she  was  the  only 


LOVERS'  MEETING  237 

•survivor  of  twelve,  and  indicated  the  photographic  Valhalla 
on  the  walls. 

"They  were  all  insured,"  said  Caroline;  "weren't  they, 
Pa?" 

Mr.  Brady  laid  down  the  Catholic  Herald  to  murmur  sol- 
emnly :  "They  were  all  insured.  .  .  .  They  were  all  insured. 
.  .  .  Thank  God,  they  were  all  insured."  Then  he  resumed 
his  reading,  leaving  Adam  more  than  content  with  his  suc- 
cinct contribution  to  the  conversation. 

At  last  Adam  read  in  his  ensorcerer's  eye  her  leave  to  go, 
and  he  rose  hurriedly;  for  night  was  falling.  He  nerved 
himself  to  shake  Mrs.  Brady  and  even  Mr.  Brady  by  the 
hand.  Then  he  found  himself  alone  with  Caroline  Brady  in 
the  hall,  which  was  now  pitch  dark;  for  she  had  closed  the 
parlor  door  deliberately  behind  them. 

"Does  this  remind  you  of  Dalkey  tunnel?"  she  whispered, 
taking  him  in  her  arms  and  kissing  him  deliciously,  incred- 
ibly, overwhelmingly,  as  he  had  only  dreamed  that  it  might 
be  possible  to  be  kissed.  When  she  let  him  go,  he  passed 
through  the  doorway,  fierily  and  magically  in  love  with  her : 
but  his  passage  over  the  slabs  was  as  across  running  water; 
for  at  the  creaking  gate  she  said  in  valediction :  "Will  I  tell 
you  who  I  could  enjoy  myself  with?" 

And  when  he  nodded  eagerly  to  hear  his  own  name  fall 
from  her  lips,  she  whispered  in  his  ear:  "Your  guardian, 
Macarthy.  .  .  .  Will  you  tell  him  that?" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
THE  BRINK  OF  THE  RUBICON 

ADAM'S  face  was  still  on  fire  when  he  fronted  his  guardian, 
very  late  for  supper,  that  Sunday  night. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  as  if  you  wanted  to  bite  me?" 
was  the  only  question  the  latter  put  to  him.  And  Adam 
answered  at  once,  with  not  only  honesty  but  feeling  self- 
abandonment,  that  he  did  not  want  to  bite  him,  and  would 
not  injure  him  for  all  the  world.  But  from  the  bottom  of 
the  dead  wall  in  Spring  Avenue,  even  so  far  as  the  top  of 
Fitzgibbon  Street,  he  had  been  smothering  the  shrieks  of 
Caroline  and  his  guardian  in  boiling  oil.  And,  despite  his 
fair  words  to  his  guardian  that  evening,  as  St.  George's 
bells  were  ringing  three  the  next  morning,  he  transfixed  on 
the  one  sharp  dreamland  blade  the  forms  of  both  found 
huddled  together  in  the  shed  in  Mountjoy  Square :  only  in 
this  dream  Mr.  Macarthy  was  not  really  himself  so  much  as 
Father  Tudor,  and  Caroline  Brady  filled  his  cup  of  bitter- 
ness to  overflowing  by  embodying  the  charms  of  Josephine 
O'Meagher  with  her  own. 

Of  one  thing  Adam  was  quite  determined  as  he  rose  firmly 
to  take  his  cold  bath  on  Monday:  nothing  on  earth  would 
induce  him  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  Caroline 
Brady.  ...  Of  all  the  witches!  La  Belle  Dame,  sans 
merci,  was  a  fool  compared  to  her.  .  .  .  Would  he  do  any- 
thing about  that  message  .  .  .  ?  Do  anything  to  betray  his 
kind  old  guardian  into  her  clutches  ?  Perish  the  thought ! 

As  the  day  wore  on  he  was  conscious  of  a  greater  and 
greater  need  for  virtue  to  resist  the  temptation  to  walk  up 
Graf  ton  Street  about  closing  time :  but,  assisted  by  the  fact 

238 


THE  BRINK  OF  THE  RUBICON  239 

that  Mr.  Macarthy  found  reason  for  keeping  him  unusually 
busy,  his  virtue  was  triumphant.  And,  as  he  left  Mountjoy 
Square  at  a  quarter  past  ten  to  go  home  to  bed,  he  was 
felicitating  himself  upon  his  strength  of  character,  when  he 
saw  a  white  hand  beckoning  him  from  the  dark  side  by  the 
square  railings. 

He  was  too  frightened  to  obey :  particularly  lest  his  guar- 
dian might  be  watching  from  the  balcony  above :  but  at  the 
corner  of  Gardiner  Street  he  stopped  and  awaited  develop- 
ments. 

A  delightfully  mysterious  little  dark  figure  danced  across 
to  him :  "Why  did  you  run  away  ?"  asked  Caroline,  her  voice 
soft  and  full  of  the  most  caressing  reproaches. 

"I  didn't  run,"  Adam  said,  even  yet  in  a  whisper.  "You 
didn't  want  him  to  see  us,  did  you?" 

"I  didn't  want  him  to  see  me  if  he  didn't  want  to,"  said 
Caroline  loudly.  "I  don't  want  anyone  to  see  me  if  they're 
ashamed  of  it." 

"  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it,"  returned  Adam,  hotly,  "I'll  walk 
past  the  house  now  if  you  dare  me  to." 

She  pressed  his  hand,  but  only  said:  "Did  you  give  him 
my  message?" 

"I  did  not,"  said  Adam,  "and  I  won't.  ...  I  won't  even 
so  much  as  mention  your  name  to  him." 

Her  voice  hardened.    "And  why  not,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

His  answer  came  quickly :  "Because  I  want  to  keep  you 
all  to  myself." 

Her  voice  softened.  "You  little  silly.  .  .  .  As  if  you 
could,  at  your  age." 

His  answer  came  trembling:  "Couldn't  you  wait  till  I 
grow  up  ?" 

Miss  Brady  laughed  softly  and  caressingly,  almost  mu- 
sically: but  she  only  laughed,  and  Adam  felt  it  was  cruel 
of  her  only  to  laugh.  Against  it  he  said :  "I'm  waiting  for 
you  to  answer  my  question." 


240  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Miss  Brady's  voice  fell  very  low  to  say:  "I  thought  you 
only  wanted  a  bit  of  fun." 

"I  never  think  of  you,"  said  Adam,  "as  being  at  all 
funny." 

Her  voice  trembled  now  as  she  said:  "Don't  let  on  you 
ever  think  of  me  at  all." 

"Ever  since  Dalkey  tunnel.    Often."    He  spoke  fervently. 

"The  same  as  I've  thought  of  you?"  the  words  fell  like 
kisses  in  his  ears. 

He  did  not  touch  her,  but  came  so  close  that  he  was  not 
sure  if  he  were  touching  her  or  not:  "When  do  you  think 
of  me?" 

She  seemed  almost  to  advance  towards  him  as  she  whis- 
pered: "About  this  time.  .  .  .  Going  to  sleep." 

Said  Adam:  "Do  you  ever  dream?" 

She  answered:  "If  I'm  not  funny,  you  are.  Everybody 
dreams  about  all  sorts  of  people.  I  often  dream  about.  .  .  ." 
She  checked  herself  sharply,  but  Adam  felt  once  again  the 
unspoken  name  pierce  his  heart.  The  momentary  spell  was 
broken,  and  he  noticed  the  moonlight  playing  on  the  steps  of 
the  Jesuit  Church.  Over  the  roofs  of  the  Gardiner  Street 
houses  came  the  bells  of  St.  George's  ringing  eleven. 

"Time  for  respectable  young  ladies  to  be  in  bed,"  said 
Miss  Brady.  "Do  you  think  you're  old  enough  to  see  me 
home?" 

This  being,  as  it  were,  a  challenge,  Adam  took  it  up  and 
said  that,  of  course,  he  would  see  her  home:  but  he  ap- 
preciated the  delicacy  which  made  her  choose  the  west  and 
south  sides  of  the  square  for  their  route,  and  so  home  down 
Great  Charles  Street:  something  of  a  roundabout  to  Spring 
Avenue.  They  spoke  little  as  they  walked,  their  shadows 
preceding  them,  Caroline's  humiliatingly  the  longer,  so  far 
as  the  North  Circular  Road.  In  Spring  Avenue  there  was 
no  moon :  the  dead  walls  forbade  it  to  enter  there. 


THE  BRINK  OF  THE  RUBICON  241 

"It  comes  into  my  room  at  the  back,"  said  Caroline,  "and 
often  keeps  me  awake  all  night." 

"And  it  comes  into  mine,"  said  Adam,  "but  it  only  makes 
me  dream." 

"What  a  little  dreamer  you  are,  to  be  sure,"  she  laughed, 
like  the  wind  rustling.  "I  believe  you'd  dream  away  your 
whole  life  when  you're  not  reading  the  dictionary."  She 
clapped  her  hands  on  his  eyes  and  whispered :  "Dream  now 
that  I'm  kissing  you."  He  felt  her  lips  rove  dazzingly  over 
his.  Then  she  said,  still  in  a  whisper:  "Would  you  like  to 
see  the  moonlight  in  my  room?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  huskily,  clenching  his  hands. 

Whereupon  she  replied,  with  a  grim  chuckle :  "Well,  you 
can't.  .  .  .  Dreamers  are  no  use  to  me."  Then  the  gate 
creaked,  a  latch-key  clinked,  and  the  door  of  her  little  tomb 
snapped  behind  her,  before  the  pressure  of  her  hand  had 
passed  from  Adam's  eyes. 

Dizzily  he  scrambled  out  of  the  dark  street,  to  be  startled 
in  the  moonlight  at  the  corner  of  the  Circular  Road  by  the 
shadow  of  a  man :  his  guardian.  Mr.  Macarthy,  saw  him 
home,  their  shadows  pursuing  them  briskly  up  Fitzgibbon 
Street  to  St.  George's  Place.  There  was  no  reproof 
nor  even  question:  but,  bidding  him  good-night,  he  said 
smoothly :  "This  must  not  occur  again,"  and  Adam  answered 
humbly :  "No,  sir." 

For  the  next  four  days  Adam's  conduct,  habitually  good, 
was  irreproachable.  But  Saturday  found  him  feverishly 
watching  for  her  outside  Hollander's.  And,  joy  of  joys! 
there  was  no  trim  Hussar,  no  tipsy  Semitic  Highlander,  no 
Macarthy-like  civilian  to  claim  her  now.  He  had  her  to 
himself  for  a  little  while.  She  seemed  even  to  expect  him; 
for  she  said:  "Why  haven't  you  come  all  this  long  while?" 

"Long  while?"  Adam  ingenuously  echoed:  "Tuesday, 
Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday?" 


242  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"I  do  know  the  names  of  the  days  of  the  week,  ignorant 
as  I  am,"  she  retorted,  and  went  on  sharply :  "By  the  way, 
I  remembered  last  night  in  bed,  the  wife  of  Socrates  was 
called  Elsie-buy-a-dress." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Adam :  "I  tell  you  her  name  was  Xan- 
tippe." 

"It's  no  use  your  saying  'Nonsense,' "  she  retorted ;  "I  tell 
you  it's  true." 

"But  who  ever  heard  of  such  a  name?"  said  Adam. 

"I  have,  often  and  often,"  she  declared;  "I  suppose  it 
was  a  sort  of  nick-name,  like  I  know  a  fellow  calls  me 
'Carrie-bit-of-fun.' " 

Adam  groaned  and  made  no  answer. 

"I'll  take  the  tram  from  College  Green  to  the  Rotunda," 
she  said  with  affected  indifference:  and  Adam,  waking  up, 
urged  her  to  drink  tea  with  him.  She  asked  him  whither 
he  proposed  to  take  her,  and  when  he  mentioned  the  cafe 
in  College  Street,  shook  her  head :  "Anarchists  go  there," 
said  she. 

Adam  foolishly  said  "Nonsense"  once  again. 

"But  I  tell  you  they  do,"  she  insisted.  "I  know  all  about 
it.  It's  a  dreadful  place  I  wouldn't  be  seen  dead  in." 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  it?"  he  said,  with  an  obstinacy 
equal  to  her  own. 

"As  if  I  would!  I'm  told  Sinn  Feiners  go  there  as  well 
as  Anarchists.  Even  that  old  baggage,  Marquisa  Thingumy 
they  call  her,  Lord  Garryhestie's  aunt,  who  married  the 
Italian  like  a  monkey  on  a  barrel-organ:  I've  seen  him  at 
Mooney's." 

Adam  answered  smartly :  "I  can  tell  you,  people  go  there 
who  wouldn't  go  to  Mooney's." 

"I  dare  say  people  go  to  hell  who  wouldn't  go  to  heaven," 
she  rejoined. 

And  Adam,  quite  forgetting  his  caution,  blurted:  "Any- 
how, Mr.  Macarthy  thinks  it  good  enough  for  him." 


THE  BRINK  OF  THE  RUBICON  243 

A  change  swept  over  Miss  Brady's  attitude,  and  she  put 
her  best  leg  forward.  "Come  along,"  said  she,  and  she 
whirled  past  Tom  Moore's  statue  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 
.  .  .  "Will  we  find  him  there  now  ?"  she  asked  as  they  blew 
in  through  the  door. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Adam,  knowing  well  that  they  would  not ; 
for  Mr.  Macarthy  had  for  some  months  ceased  to  go  there, 
or  Adam  would  not  have  ventured.  He  was,  however,  al- 
most more  distraught  to  find  himself  hailed  by  his  other 
guardian,  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

"That's  a  queer  thing,  now,  a  very  queer  thing.  It  was 
thinking  of  you,  Adam,  brought  me  in  here  to-day.  And 
talk  of  the  devil,  there  you  are.  This  young  lady  is  not 
with  you,  is  she?  ...  If  she  is,  introduce  me.  .  .  .  And  if 
she  isn't,  sure,  it  doesn't  matter :  I'll  talk  to  her  all  the  same." 
Such  was  the  greeting  of  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

Adam  murmured  distractedly  the  name  of  Miss  Brady, 
and  Mr.  O'Meagher  addressed  himself  to  her:  "Our  friend 
Mr.  Macfadden  has  great  taste  in  female  beauty,  Miss 
O'Brady :  not  that  I  pretend  to  be  a  judge  of  it  myself ;  for 
I've  a  grown-up  daughter  that  might  be  older  than  yourself, 
and  what  good  would  I  be  saying  whether  Juno  or 
Minerva  or  Venus  herself  was  the  loveliest  lady  of  all  the 
goddesses  ?" 

"I'd  have  thought,"  said  Miss  Brady  demurely,  "that 
you  were  not  too  old  for  a  bit  of  fun." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  shuffled  his  feet  and  coughed.  He  seemed 
to  be  making  an  effort  to  grow  serious.  "O'Brady,"  said 
he,  "is  a  Connacht  name,  and  I'm  what  the  poet  calls 
Nature's  M.P.  for  that  part  of  the  world.  So,  whatever 
you  may  be,  Miss  O'Brady,  I'm  the  man  to  fight  your 
battles." 

"Thanks  awfully,"  said  Miss  Brady,  her  manner  stiffen- 
ing, and,  perhaps,  modeling  itself  on  the  baronet's  daughter 
in  Hollander's  showroom.  "I've  never  been  to  these  out-of- 


244  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

the- way  places  myself,  but  I'm  sure  it's  very  nice  to  know 
that  you  come  from  there." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  sighed.  "Oh,  indeed,  I'm  sorry  to  say 
I  don't  come  from  Connacht.  I'd  be  proud  to  do  so,  but 
I'm  still  prouder  that  I'm  a  Munster  man,  the  same  as 
another  friend  of  our  friend  here,  Mr.  Macarthy." 

"Has  he  been  in  here  to-day  ?"  she  asked  promptly. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  stared  at  her:  "And  is  he  a  friend  of 
yours  too?"  he  asked. 

"You  can  hardly  call  him  that,"  Miss  Brady  answered 
coolly,  pouring  out  Adam's  tea  for  him  with  the  gravity  of 
a  honeymooning  bride.  "But  Adam  and  I  are  always  talk- 
ing about  him." 

"Does  Adam  talk  about  him  to  you  or  you  to  Adam?" 
Mr.  O'Meagher  sharply  queried.  "And  how  long  has 
'always'  been  going  on?" 

"How  long  have  we  known  each  other,  dear?"  Miss  Brady 
asked  Adam,  and  Adam,  with  his  mouth  full,  answered : 
"Oh,  years  and  years." 

"Indeed,  now,"  pursued  Mr.  O'Meagher;  "and  was  that 
before  you  came  to  Sandycove?" 

Seeing  Adam  at  an  incomprehensible  loss,  Miss  Brady 
said  sweetly:  "We  met  through  the  Nuns  at  Bray,  didn't 
we,  Adam?" 

"The  Nuns  at  Bray,  yes,"  Adam  gulped  out,  glad  to  be 
fixed  at  last. 

"The  devil,  you  did,"  muttered  Mr.  O'Meagher,  adding 
gloomily:  "That  reminds  me,  Josephine  is  to  be  received  on 
Corpus  Christi."  Then  he  heavily  asked:  "How  long  is  it 
since  you've  seen  Josephine?" 

"Years  and  years,"  repeated  Adam,  borrowing  his  ques- 
tioner's gloom. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  smiled  grimly :  "It  seems  the  Nuns  at  Bray 
gave  you  Miss  Brady  here,  and  took  away  Josephine." 


THE  BRINK  OF  THE  RUBICON  245 

"They  were  different  nuns,"  Adam  thought  it  necessary 
to  explain. 

"I  should  think  they  were,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher,  "and 
dealt  in  very  different  goods.  ...  I  won't  deny  that  Miss 
Brady  is  a  pretty  young  lady." 

"You're  humbugging,"  Miss  Brady  giggled,  to  Adam's 
extreme  annoyance;  "and  who  is  Josephine,  if  it  isn't  rude?" 

"Merely  my  daughter,  ma'am,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  admitted, 
bowing  respectfully  over  his  tea-cup. 

"Go  on !"  cried  Caroline.  "You  haven't  a  daughter  going 
to  be  a  nun?" 

"I  have  that,"  said  Mr.  O'Meagher. 

"Well,  I'm  .  .  .  surprised?"  protested  Miss  Brady,  "that 
you  of  all  men  would  send  a  girl  where  she'll  never  have  a 
bit  of  fun." 

"I  would,  indeed,  be  the  last  to  send  her,"  Mr.  O'Meagher 
agreed,  then  eyed  her  askance :  "But  all  the  girls  are  not  in 
convents  who  have  to  go  without  any  fun." 

"Then  they  must  be  as  ugly  as  sin  or  dotty  in  the  crumpet," 
said  Caroline  brazenly. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  glanced  uneasily  from  her  to  Adam  and 
back  again.  "How  old  are  you,  my  dear?"  he  asked. 

Caroline  answered,  with  her  pleasant  smile :  "I  suppose 
you  think  I'm  old  enough  to  know  better.  That's  what  my 
Pa  says  when  he  says  anything,  but  generally  always  he  says 
nothing." 

"He's  a  wise  sort  of  fellow,  your  Pa,"  said  Mr.  O'Meag- 
her. "I  wish  there  were  more  like  him." 

"I've  only  the  one  I  ever  heard  of,"  said  Miss  Brady. 
And  Mr.  O'Meagher,  staring  at  her  again,  asked  Adam  what 
were  his  plans  for  the  evening ;  who  explained  that  he  was 
on  his  way  home  when  he  met  Miss  Brady. 

She  interjected:  "It's  not  often  we  meet,  for  such  old 
sweethearts." 


246  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"You  went  joy-rides  in  the  same  perambulator?"  grunted 
Mr.  O'Meagher. 

"You  might  say  we  did,"  said  Miss  Brady,  "away  there 
under  Killiney  Hill." 

Mr.  O'Meagher  pursed  his  lips:  "Well,  well,"  quoth  he, 
"this  is  an  eye-opener  to  me.  And  I  don't  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  ...  But,  of  course,  if  Mr.  Macarthy  thinks  it 
all  right  .  .  ." 

"There's  no  one  in  the  world  like  Mr.  Macarthy,"  she 
broke  in  eagerly. 

Mr.  O'Meagher  rose,  saying :  "Faith,  that's  not  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy's  fault."  And,  with  this  mysterious  epigram,  he  bade 
them  good-evening. 

Caroline  laid  her  hand  on  Adam's  arm :  "Did  you  hear 
what  he  said  about  Macarthy  ?" 

"He's  always  joking,"  was  Adam's  extemporized  apology ; 
"I've  never  known  him  to  be  serious  even  about  his  daughter 
entering  a  convent.  .  .  .  Though  I  know  he  hates  it  like 
poison." 

"Men  are  so  selfish,"  Miss  Brady  declared.  "I'm  sure 
she'll  be  happy  until  it's  too  late  to  be  anything  else." 
Having  given  time  for  this  to  sink  in,  she  added:  "I  often 
think  I  have  a  vocation." 

"You !"  was  all  Adam  could  say  to  this. 

"Don't  stare  as  if  I  had  smallpox,"  she  admonished  him ; 
"it  comes  and  goes.  But  the  vocation's  there  right  enough, 
and  some  day  it  may  come  to  stay." 

"What  sort  of  a  convent  would  you  enter?"  asked  Adam, 
imagining  that  she  demanded  to  be  taken  seriously. 

"There  you  have  me,"  said  Miss  Brady;  "the  head  of  it 
•would  have  to  be  pretty  nippy ;  for  I  never  could  bring  my- 
self to  obey  anybody." 

Adam,  gulping  down  his  last  fragment  of  toast,  asked : 
"How  do  you  manage  at  the  shop?" 

She   shrugged  her  shoulders.     "Oh,  I  just  let  on   and 


THE  BRINK  OF  THE  RUBICON  247 

make  myself  pleasant,  and  Miss  Smith-Pink  says  that  if  I 
go  she  goes  too." 

"Who's  Miss  Smith-Pink?" 

"The  baronet's  daughter.  She  is  a  lady  and  a  half,  and 
she  has  the  loveliest  bust  you  ever  saw.  .  .  .  Not  that  I 
suppose  you  ever  saw  more  than  one,  or  may  be  two." 

Adam  gravely  assured  her  that  he  had  seen  several  at 
the  National  Gallery,  whereupon  Miss  Brady  indulged  her- 
self in  a  peal  of  modulated  laughter.  "I  don't  mean  busts 
made  of  bricks  and  mortar,  or  sawdust,  or  whatever  they 
are  but  busts  like  my  own  or  Josephine's."  She  turned  her 
eyes  on  him.  "I  suppose  you've  seen  Josephine's:  the  old 
fellow  talked  as  if  he  thought  you  had." 

For  answer  Adam  reddened  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and 
his  lips  alternately  quivered  and  were  unnaturally  firm.  .  .  . 
Miss  Brady's  color  thereupon  also  heightened.  "You  and 
your  Josephine!  She  wasn't  born  in  a  convent,  was  she? 
Did  ye  never  bathe  together  when  you  were  kids  ?"  her  tone 
sharpened,  "Because  she  has  a  blessed  vocation,  which  as 
likely  as  not  means  stuff  and  nonsense,  that  ought  to  be 
spanked  out  of  her,  if  her  Pa  were  a  man  worth  talk- 
ing to.  D'you  suppose  she  has  different  ribs  from  you 
and  me?" 

Adam  expressed  in  dumb  show  his  annoyance  at  the  sug- 
gestion that  Miss  O'Meagher  had  ribs. 

"Well,  you  are  a  little  silly,"  said  Miss  Brady,  "wasting 
your  money  giving  me  tea  and  cakes  and  dreaming  about 
your  Josephine  all  the  time.  .  .  .  And  she  sticking  her 
fingers  to  her  nose  at  you  out  of  a  convent  window  for  ever 
and  ever,  world  without  end,  Amen."  She  rose  to  go. 

Adam  looked  up  wistfully  in  her  face :  "I  can't  help  loving 
Josephine  O'Meagher,"  he  said,  "any  more  than  I  can  help 
loving  you." 

Caroline,  holding  his  eyes  with  hers,  sat  down  again,  to 
say  in  his  ear :  "You  needn't  help  loving  me  ...  I'm  not  a 


248  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

nun,  and  wouldn't  be  if  I'd  fifty  vocations ;  for  I  think  it's 
cowardly." 

"It  isn't  cowardly,"  Adam  protested,  "or  Josephine 
wouldn't  do  it." 

"Then  it's  cowardly  of  you  to  let  her  do  it,"  she  snapped. 

Adam  stared  at  her  open-mouthed.  "However  could  I 
help  it?"  he  expostulated.  "I'm  not  old  enough  to  do 
anything." 

"You're  old  enough  to  do  a  lot  more  than  you  think,"  he 
was  surprised  to  hear. 

"How  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  gasped. 

"I  mean  with  your  humbugging  blue  eyes." 

She  fired  this  compliment  as  it  were  point  blank,  and 
brought  down  Adam's  flag  so  that  he  mumbled :  "I  suppose 
I  don't  really  care  for  her  as  much  as  I  care  for  you." 

Miss  Brady  eyed  him  suspiciously.  "Did  you  really  mean 
it  when  you  told  her  father  you  hadn't  seen  her  for  years  ?" 

"Word  of  honor,"  said  Adam,  "and  I  don't  suppose  I'll 
ever  see  her  again." 

"Well,  then,  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Miss  Brady,  and  paused 
to  give  an  edge  to  Adam's  curiosity. 

"What?"  repeated  Adam. 

"On  Whit  Monday  Bank  Holiday :  that's  Monday  week : 
you  be  at  the  corner  of  our  street  at  ten  past  three" — she 
paused  again. 

"Yes,"  said  Adam  breathlessly,  "the  corner  of  your  street 
at  ten  past  three,  and  what  about  it?" 

She  smiled  at  him.    "What  do  you  think  about  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Adam;  "what  do  you  think?" 

"Supposing,"  said  Miss  Brady,  "supposing  we  go  some- 
where and  maybe  never  come  back?" 

"Never  come  back?"  Adam  echoed,  round-eyed  at  the 
prospect  of  such  wild  romance. 

"Maybe  we'll  not  come  back  the  way  we  went,  anyhow," 
said  Miss  Brady,  and  leaped  to  her  feet.  "I  must  hustle 


THE  BRINK  OF  THE  RUBICON  249 

home  now.  Be  good."  She  gave  him  her  hand:  "Don't 
come  with  me :  I've  no  time  now  for  dilly  dally,  and  I'll  not 
see  you  until  Monday  week;  but  it's  the  corner  of  Spring 
Avenue,  at  ten  past  three,  and  don't  you  fail  me,  wet  or 
fine." 

"Wet  or  fine,"  said  Adam  fervently,  as  if  she  had  named 
their  wedding  day.  That  moment  he  felt  himself  a  man,  but 
he  was  humiliated  five  minutes  later  to  find  that  she  had 
paid  for  their  repast. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

THE  days  between  that  and  Whitsuntide  Adam  passed  in  a 
waking  dream,  vaguely  conscious  that  his  guardian  watched 
him  all  the  while  with  an  anxious  air  that,  when  Adam 
plucked  up  courage  to  look  at  him,  melted  into  his  normal 
Sphinx-like  smile.  He  wondered  if  Mr.  O'Meagher  had 
said  anything  of  the  encounter  at  the  College  Restaurant. 
He  almost  wished  that  he  had,  and  that  Mr.  Macarthy  would 
demand  an  explanation:  but  Mr.  Macarthy  seldom  asked 
other  than  abstract  questions,  unless  they  arose  from  some 
topic  of  conversation  on  which  Adam  offered  an  improvisa- 
tion. When  Adam  was  on  the  verge  of  suspecting  himself 
of  talking  nonsense  Mr.  Macarthy  would  break  in  with  a 
cautionary  inquiry.  This  served  to  clear  the  air  and  bring 
Adam's  view  of  facts  into  sharper  focus.  He  had  early 
recognized  as  a  difference  between  Mr.  Macarthy  and  all 
the  others,  save,  perhaps,  Father  Innocent,  that  he  avoided 
that  form  of  inquiry  which  tempted  double-faced  answers. 

It  was  not  fear  that  kept  Adam  from  telling  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy about  Caroline  Brady  so  much  as  the  conviction  that 
if  Mr.  Macarthy  were  in  Adam's  place  he  would  keep  the 
secret  to  himself.  He  tried  to  imagine  a  youthful  Macarthy 
in  love  with  a  pre- Adamite  Caroline  Brady:  but  he  could 
not  imagine  his  guardian  young  or  in  love,  and  was  only 
irritably  reminded  of  the  actual  Caroline's  repeated  confes- 
sion of  desire  for  him. 

He  felt  it  was  perverse  of  Caroline  to  pretend  to  be  in 
love  with  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  and  he  knew 
not  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  that  she  never  used  her 

250 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  251 

favorite  colloquialism  with  reference  to  him.  But  Adam's 
mind  during  those  days  was  not  in  a  condition  for  pellucid 
thinking.  Josephine  O'Meagher  had  always  been  to  him  a 
distinct  figure :  but  Caroline  from  the  beginning  of  things 
had  a  diffused  identity.  Even  that  first  wonderful  kiss  she 
had  given  him  in  Dalkey  tunnel  had  been  enjoyed  under 
the  illusion  that  it  came  from  someone  else.  And  after  that 
he  had  for  years  believed  her  to  be  dead,  and  found  full 
satisfaction  in  life  without  her.  And  now  that  he  had  met 
her  again,  he  had  wished  more  than  once  that  she  were 
dead.  .  .  .  And  yet  felt  it  a  tragedy  of  self-denial  to  pass 
twenty-four  hours  without  a  caress  from  her.  .  .  .  And 
yet,  when  he  walked  the  streets,  he  constantly  imagined  that 
this,  or  that,  or  the  other  girl  must  be  she.  He  saw  her 
everywhere  there  was  a  petticoat  draping  thin  legs :  he  never 
mistook  any  passer-by  for  Josephine  O'Meagher :  though  he 
could  not  s\vear  for  a  positive  fact  that  Josephine's  legs  were 
not  of  wood  below  the  knees,  and  of  bricks  and  mortar  or 
sawdust  (as  Miss  Brady  conceived  Aphrodite's  to  be)  above. 
Caroline's  view  of  life  baffled  him:  a  dreamer  about  him- 
self, he  demanded  of  others  that  they  should  be  downright. 
Every  word  she  said  to  him  he  took  to  be  seriously  meant, 
most  of  them  he  remembered,  few  he  could  reconcile,  and 
taxed  his  brain  to  make  sense  of  the  confused  expressions 
of  her  jig-saw  mentality.  He  believed  absolutely  that  she 
did  sometimes  think  that  she  had  a  vocation :  he  believed  it 
possible  for  her  to  have  a  vocation,  just  as  he  believed  it 
possible  that  he  himself  might  have  one.  .  .  .  He  conceived 
of  a  vocation  as  something  that  came  to  you  unaccountably 
in  spite  of  yourself.  .  .  .  Why  did  Caroline  think  it  cow- 
ardly of  Josephine  O'Meagher  to  enter  a  convent?  To  hint 
it  seemed  extraordinarily  brave.  The  thought  of  it  fright- 
ened him,  frightened  him  far  worse  than  the  thought  of 
death,  and  the  thought  of  death  seemed  to  him  one  of  the 
most  undesirable  of  all  thoughts,  except  when  he  connected 


ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

it  with  a  romantic  issue.  Thus,  he  would  have  thought  it 
delightful  to  die  for  his  country,  though  not  quite  clear  as 
to  what  he  meant  by  this ;  for  no  one  seemed  to  know  what 
a  country  was.  .  .  .  The  Intermediate  Education  Board  had 
succeeded  in  driving  the  possibility  of  discovering  any  real 
meaning  in  the  word  patriotism  out  of  his  mind :  to  ask  an 
Irish  boy  to  regard  England  as  his  country  was  to  demand 
of  him  the  impossible,  but,  at  the  same  time,  to  demonstrate 
that  he  had  no  country  of  his  own.  He  thought  that  when 
he  grew  up  he  might  travel  all  over  the  world  in  search  of 
a  country  that  he  might  make  his  own,  and  then,  if  occasion 
should  arise,  die  for  it.  ...  Meanwhile  his  wish  to  die  for 
his  country  was  a  mere  form  of  piety  impossible  to  put  in 
practice. 

Nearer  home  was  the  other  greater  and  more  romantic 
possibility,  that  of  dying  for  his  love.  .  .  .  Ere  he  had  yet 
learnt  to  swim  he  had  saved  Caroline  Brady  from  drown- 
ing: repeatedly  he  had  done  the  same  for  Josephine 
O'Meagher,  and  more  than  once  for  Barbara  Burns,  but 
only  from  the  high  running  seas  of  his  conceit,  so  they  never 
thanked  him.  To  do  him  justice,  he  was  too  humane  to 
wish  them  in  peril  that  he  might  make  sure  whether  he  had 
the  courage  to  rescue  them  or  not:  he  forgot  that  he  had 
not  the  strength ;  for  although  since  his  bicycle  accident  he 
had  lost  some  of  his  activity,  he  swam  pretty  well,  yet  an 
effort  to  support  any  of  these  comparatively  large  ladies  in 
the  water  would  not  have  succeeded.  .  .  .  On  the  other 
hand,  how  delicious  to  die  with  them.  .  .  .  With  any  one 
of  them:  to  die  with  all  of  them  together  he  recognized  as 
something  a  little  pretentious,  what  was  the  word,  unchival- 
rous.  The  knights  of  Christian  chivalry  had  but  one  lady 
love  at  tragic  moments :  he  was  less  certain  of  the  custom  of 
the  Paynim  palladins.  West  was  west  for  him,  and  he 
stuck  to  the  Christian  ideal,  still,  to  die  with  Josephine 
would  be  to  enter  heaven :  failing  that,  to  die  with  Caroline 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  253 

would  be  exquisitely  mysterious :  to  die  with  Barbara  would 
be  vastly  interesting,  though,  he  feared,  impossible,  because 
of  her  snobbery.  .  .  .  She  could  not  forget  that  she  was  the 
granddaughter  of  a  baronet,  and  yet  there  was  Caroline 
Brady  working  in  the  same  showroom  with  a  baronet's 
daughter,  Miss  Smith-Pink.  He  wondered  if  Miss  Smith- 
Pink  were  any  relation  of  Mr.  Porphyro  Smith-Pink  who 
had  recited  "Who  Fears  to  Speak  of  Ninety-Eight?"  the 
first  night  Adam  had  visited  the  Six  Muses  Club.  That 
Mr.  Smith-Pink  was  a  Sinn  Feiner,  he  believed.  ...  It 
was  ignorant  of  Caroline  Brady  to  suppose  that  Sinn 
Feiners  were  worse  than  anarchists.  Anarchists  were  the 
dregs  of  society,  except  Mr.  Behre,  who  called  himself  a 
philosophical  anarchist :  philosophical  anarchists  were  not 
infrequently  princes,  like  Prince  Kropotkin,  whose  books 
Mr.  Macarthy  had,  and  told  Adam  that  he  ought  to  read; 
but  Adam  could  not  read  economics.  He  wished  he  knew, 
without  the  trouble  of  reading  them,  what  was  the  differ- 
ence between  a  philosophical  anarchist  and  the  common 
variety;  he  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that  the  philo- 
sophical anarchists  were  people  who  would  not  do  what  they 
thought  they  ought  to  do,  and  the  other  anarchists  people 
who  did  what  they  thought  they  ought  not.  He  knew,  any- 
how, that  the  word  anarchist  meant  one  who  was  against 
the  law,  but  his  experience  of  life  showed  him  that  every- 
body was  against  the  law  when  he  found  it  interfered  with 
him.  The  Government  itself  that  made  the  law  made  no 
attempt  to  keep  it ;  as  for  the  police,  they  seemed  to  him  to 
do  as  they  liked.  .  .  .  There  was  Father  Tudor  again: 
everyone  agreed  that  he  had  no  right  to  do  as  he  did,  yet 
because  he  was  a  strong  man  no  one  had  the  courage  to  make 
him  stop  it. 

With  such  thoughts  chasing  through  his  brain,  Adam  lived 
through  the  week  before  Whit  Monday.  He  longed  pas- 
sionately for  that  day,  and  yet  there  was  something  innocent 


254  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

in  it  all,  even  in  the  very  passion.  Side  by  side  with  his 
longing  to  enjoy  his  love  went  a  counting  and  recounting  of 
the  years  that  separated  him  from  the  possibility  of  mar- 
riage. On  the  very  Saturday  morning  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  would  go  to  confession  once  again  to  Father  Ignatius 
Steele.  .  .  .  He  would,  after  all,  seek  his  advice  as  to  how 
he  might  purge  his  soul  of  any  shade  of  sensuality  in  his 
thought  of  Caroline  Brady. 

At  three  o'clock  down  Gardiner  Street  he  went,  and  up 
the  church  steps,  making  reverently  this  time  a  sign  of  the 
cross  with  the  holy  water  in  the  font,  and  praying  a  little 
while  before  the  high  altar  ere  he  sought  the  Ignatian 
chapel.  As  he  approached  Father  Steele's  box,  he  saw  an 
old  lady  come  out,  and  a  gray-haired  man,  whom  he  thought 
he  remembered  to  have  seen  there  before,  go  in.  Only  one 
other  was  waiting  at  that  side  of  the  box,  so  there  Adam 
knelt  down  to  make  his  final  preparation.  He  found  him- 
self reviewing  not  only  the  past  weeks  but  his  whole  life ; 
for  he  was  determined  to  say  all  frankly  to  Father  Steele 
that  could  throw  light  upon  the  present.  And,  thinking  of 
how  he  had  first  come  to  meet  Caroline  Brady  in  that  cab 
outside  the  Mater  Misericordiae  Hospital,  he  thought  of  that 
other  meeting  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel  which  had  driven 
him  into  hospital.  As  he  was  thinking  of  this,  visualizing 
the  horror  of  that  meeting,  he  heard  the  shutter  of  the  box 
near  him  click,  and  the  old  man's  voice  muttering  his  sins. 
It  seemed  to  Adam  that  it  was  a  whining  tale,  the  whine  of 
a  whipped  mongrel.  Adam  felt  it  uncanny  that  a  man 
should  be  so  sorry  as  all  that  even  for  his  sins,  and  wondered 
what  vileness  the  old  man  was  telling.  After  a  long  while 
the  side  clicked  again,  the  door  opened,  and  the  old  man 
came  out. 

Adam  knew  it  was  uncharitable  to  look  at  him,  but  could 
not  resist  the  temptation,  and  there  he  saw  his  face,  drawn 
with  a  caitiff's  repentance,  struggling  against  the  easier  line 


THE  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  255 

of  false  benevolence,  the  face  of  Old  Comet,  the  police  spy. 
With  a  sudden  snap  of  the  teeth,  Adam  sprang  up  and 
walked  out  of  the  church.    He  could  not  share  his  God  with 
Old  Comet. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
ON  THE  EVE 

WITH  a  new  and  unrecognizable  emotion,  not  even  resem- 
bling that  in  which  he  left  the  Pro-Cathedral,  save  only  for 
the  purposes  of  his  Easter  Duty,  for  the  last  time,  Adam 
marched  straight  out  of  the  church  of  St.  Francis  Xavier 
and  walked  swiftly  back  to  St.  George's  Place.  Usually  he 
avoided  touching  on  any  religious  subject  with  Herr  Behre; 
deeming  this  to  be  something  about  which  he  and  the  musi- 
cian never  could  agree.  But  to-day  he  was  in  the  mood  to 
talk  with  him  about  it.  He  went  directly  to  his  room,  and, 
finding  him  there,  told  of  his  meeting  with  the  police  spy. 

Herr  Behre  chuckled  grimly.  "Has  Mr.  Macarthy  never 
made  it  clear  to  you,"  said  he,  "that  a  Jesuit  is  himself  but 
a  police  spy  of  the  Pope?" 

Adam  shook  his  head.  "I  never  heard  Mr.  Macarthy  say 
a  word  against  any  priest,  not  even  Father  Tudor."  This 
was  not  strictly  true,  but,  as  Adam  had  never  heard  Mr. 
Macarthy  say  anything  against  Father  Tudor  which  he 
thought  half  bad  enough,  he  was  under  the  impression  he 
had  said  nothing  at  all. 

Herr  Behre  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Mr.  Macarthy," 
said  he,  "is  half  a  Jesuit  himself." 

Adam  recalled  what  Father  Clare  had  said  to  him  at 
Clongowes.  "Was  he  ever  in  orders?"  he  asked. 

Herr  Behre  walked  up  and  down  the  room  and  again 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Does  anyone  know  what  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy has  or  has  not  been?"  he  murmured. 

Adam  protested:  "He  never  seems  to  me  to  hide  any- 
thing." 

256 


ON  THE  EVE  257 

"I  would  not  say  he  hides  anything,"  the  musician  de- 
clared; "to  say  that  he  hides  anything  would  be  to  imply 
that  he  has  something  to  hide.  Rather  would  I  say  of  Mr. 
Macarthy  that  he  has  so  much  to  show  that  it  can  never  all 
be  seen."  Smiling  at  his  own  phrase,  he  concluded:  "Mr. 
Macarthy  is  not  the  man  to  open  his  mind  as  if  it  were  an 
exhibition.  He  keeps  his  treasures  to  himself,  like  the  old- 
fashioned  gentleman  that  he  is  at  heart." 

Adam  clung  to  this  phrase.  "He  is  old-fashioned,  isn't 
he?"  he  said,  adding  confusedly:  "Not  the  sort  of  person  a 
girl  would  fall  in  love  with." 

Herr  Behre  knit  his  brows.  "What  is  that,  now?"  said 
he.  "Has  someone  fallen  in  love  with  Mr.  Macarthy?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Adam  hastily,  "I  was  only  thinking  that 
he  was  not  the  sort  of  person  that  a  girl,  not  a  young  girl, 
would  fall  in  love  with.  .  .  .  You  don't  think  he  is,  do  you?" 

Herr  Behre's  brows  lightened  and  he  laughed.  "Why  ask 
that  of  me  ?"  he  protested.  "Why  not  ask  your  friend,  Miss 
Barbara?" 

A  fresh  twinge  of  jealousy  caught  Adam  so  sharply  that 
he  rapped  out :  "I  never  thought  of  her." 

The  musician  looked  at  him :  "But  you  thought  of  some- 
one, eh?"  he  cried  rallyingly:  "you  thought  of  someone?" 
He  checked  himself  to  add  with  unnatural  gravity:  "You 
are  too  young  to  think  of  such  things  at  all,"  and  did  not 
encourage  him  further  to  pursue  the  subject. 

Alone  at  dinner  with  Mr.  Macarthy  Adam  told  again  of 
his  encounter  with  Old  Comet.  Mr.  Macarthy  took  the 
business  more  as  a  matter  of  course  than  he  had  expected. 
He  refused  to  blame  Father  Ignatius  for  suffering  a  police 
spy  to  come  to  confession  to  him.  "Old  Comet's  is  a  dirty 
job,"  said  he,  "but  your  description  of  him  gives  one  the 
hope  that  he  may  possibly  be  ashamed  of  it." 

"If  he  is  ashamed  of  it,"  Adam  returned,  "why  does  he 
go  on  doing  it?" 


258  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Mr.  Macarthy  said:  "I  am  glad  to  gather  from  what 
you  say  that  you  never  do  anything  of  which  you  are 
ashamed.  .  .  ." 

"I  won't  say  that,"  Adam  hastily  put  in. 

"If  you  do  things  of  which  you  are  ashamed,"  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy returned,  "why  do  you  go  on  doing  them?" 

"I  suppose,"  Adam  said  thoughtfully,  "it's  because  I  find 
it  hard  to  leave  off." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "you  may  take  it  from  me 
that  Old  Comet,  as  they  call  him,  finds  it  uncommonly  hard 
to  leave  off  being  a  police  spy.  It  must  be  one  of  the  most 
difficult  of  all  trades  to  drop." 

"But,"  Adam  protested,  "isn't  Old  Comet  a  traitor  to  his 
country  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "and  so  am  I,  only  I  don't 
make  any  money  out  of  it."  Having  delivered  this  surpris- 
ing statement,  he  made  a  still  more  startling  one.  "I  do 
make  money  by  a  worse  betrayal  than  that  of  my  country." 

"You !"  exclaimed  Adam,  much  perturbed,  for  his  guar- 
dian denounced  himself  with  the  bitterness  of  an  apostle 
denouncing  Judas. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "my  chief  source  of  income  is 
derived  from  debauching  the  public  intellect." 

"How?"  asked  Adam,  all  agape. 

"Some  day,  perhaps,  I  may  tell  you,  as  a  solemn  warn- 
ing," Mr.  Macarthy  said,  "but  this  is  not  the  time  for  a 
painful  confession  which  you  are,  perhaps,  still  too  young 
to  be  advantaged  by." 

The  world  seemed  to  Adam  to  be  in  the  melting-pot  that 
afternoon  and  evening  and  night;  for  he  dreamed  that  night 
that  he  was  drifting  over  the  falls  of  a  river  that  fell  no- 
where. His  mind  rang  three  changes  so  rapidly  that  they 
blurred  together  in  their  recurrence.  How  could  Old  Comet 
be  forgiven  for  his  sins:  what  was  the  secret  of  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy's  shame :  and  did  Caroline  Brady  love  him,  or  some- 


ON  THE  EVE  259 

body  else,  or  everybody,  or  no  one  at  all — was  she  just  hum- 
bugging? ...  If  she  was  not  humbugging,  what  was  going 
to  happen  on  Monday?  He  dreamed  of  many  different  hap- 
penings on  Monday,  and  awoke  restless  on  the  Sunday 
morning. 

Restless  he  remained  all  day.  Mr.  Macarthy  would  be 
away  until  Monday  evening,  so  the  last  chance  of  opening 
his  mind  to  anyone  was  gone.  Despite  a  temptation  not  to 
do  so,  he  went  as  usual  to  Long  Mass  and  heard  Father 
Steele  give  one  of  his  best  discourses  in  which,  touching  on 
the  raising  of  the  rival  Orange  and  Green  armies,  he  pleaded 
for  peace  between  man  and  man,  between  Irishman  and 
Irishman.  Adam  was  touched  but  no  more  ...  he  felt 
there  could  be  no  peace  between  him  and  that  which  Old 
Comet  served. 

After  playing  with  his  early  dinner,  eaten  alone  at  St. 
George's  Place,  he  took  up  the  Byron-Quinn  poems  and 
read  the  last  sonnet  again,  feeling  to-day  that  he  understood 
the  sentiment  that  inspired  it.  ...  To  bring  a  child  into 
this  world  was  a  terrible  thing,  and  he  did  not  wonder  at 
the  baronet's  apology  for  it.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
would  never  do  the  like  of  that :  when  you  were  alive  it  was 
not  easy  to  make  up  your  mind  to  wish  to  be  dead,  but  it 
saved  a  lot  of  trouble  and  bitterness  not  to  be  born.  .  .  . 
He  didn't  complain  of  his  own  life,  far  from  it,  but  he 
would  have  done  so  had  he  not  been  rescued  from  the  slums 
in  some  unaccountable  fashion,  the  wherefor  of  which,  never 
clear  to  him,  he  was  fast  forgetting.  His  attitude  towards 
Mr.  Macarthy  was  virtually  that  of  a  son  except  that  there 
was  a  familiarity  between  them  not  common  in  Ireland,  if 
anywhere,  between  parents  and  children.  .  .  .  And  yet 
he  had  said  nothing  to  Mr.  Macarthy  about  Caroline 
Brady.  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  Mr.  O'Meagher  had  said  any- 
thing. .  .  .  Perhaps  nothing  had  come  into  his  mind  to  say ; 
after  all,  why  should  not  Adam  bring  a  lady  friend  to  tea  at 


26o  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

College  Street?  .  .  .  But  if  Caroline  Brady  and  he  were 
married,  might  they  not  bring  children  into  the  world  ?  .  .  . 
If  men  loved  women,  commonly  they  had  children  by  them. 
.  .  .  That  was  something  he  would  have  to  discuss  with 
Caroline,  though  he  did  not  think  he  knew  her  well  enough 
to  broach  the  subject  yet.  They  could  not  get  married  for 
years  to  come,  they  could  only  talk  about  it.  It  struck  him 
suddenly  that  it  was  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  talk  about, 
and  everyone  agreed  there  was  no  harm  in  it  when  it  was 
quite  settled  you  were  going  to  be  married.  ...  It  was  a 
little  hard  to  realize  that  he  was  going  to  be  married  to 
Caroline  Brady:  he  was  not  sure  that  she  realized  it.  ... 
Perhaps  she  had  thought  of  marrying  one  of  these  soldiers ; 
he  remembered  hearing  his  mother  say  that  she  had  once 
thought  of  marrying  two  soldiers.  .  .  .  No,  one  was  a  po- 
liceman, he  remembered  his  name,  Sergeant  Barlow. 

He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  Caroline's  affections  roving  so 
far  as  his  mother's ;  he  shuddered  to  think  that  his  mother 
must  after  all  have  been  very  little,  if  at  all,  better  than  she 
ought  to  be.  Fortunately,  Caroline  Brady  bore  no  resem- 
blance, that  he  could  trace,  to  his  mother;  he  thought  it 
quite  bad  enough  that  she  should  resemble  her  own.  .  .  . 
It  was  queer,  this  resemblance  between  parents  and  children, 
though  perhaps  not  so  queer  as  a  likeness  between  those 
who  did  not  stand  in  any  relationship  to  one  another.  For 
instance,  that  people  should  think  him  like  Mr.  O'Toole, 
while  he  himself  found  Mr.  O'Toole  resembled  the  late  Sir 
David  Byron-Quinn.  ...  A  queer  feeling  came  over  him : 
had  not  the  Marchesa  once  said  to  him :  "I  know  now  who 
you  remind  me  of."  .  .  .  Could  she  have  meant  Sir  David 
Byron-Quinn  ? 

An  impulse  seized  him ;  he  looked  at  the  clock  and  then 
sat  down  and  wrote  these  words  very  clearly  on  a  small 
sheet  of  paper:  "If  it's  me  you  mean,  that's  all  right." 
Then,  folding  this  paper  he  thrust  it  in  his  waistcoat  pocket 


ON  THE  EVE  a6i 

and  left  the  house.  At  the  corner  of  Frederick  Street  he 
took  the  tram  to  Merrion  Square  and  entered  the  National 
Gallery  as  it  was  opening  for  the  afternoon.  The  first 
visitor,  he  hastened  to  the  room  where  hung  the  portrait 
of  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn:  to  find  himself  alone  with  it. 
He  thought  the  eyes  welcomed  him  as  he  approached.  And 
he  thought  they  thanked  him  as  he  departed.  The  custodian 
at  the  door  knew  him  by  appearance  as  a  friend  of  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy's,  and  perhaps  did  not  wonder  at  his  abrupt  coming 
and  going:  certainly  he  never  thought  to  look  for  the  tiny 
rent  in  the  backing  of  the  canvas  that  was  to  carry  to  pos- 
terity the  face  and  figure  of  David  Byron-Quinn  as  seen  by 
a  once  passionate  mistress,  through  which  Adam  had  slipped 
his  piece  of  paper. 

There  was  something  electric  in  the  air  that  summer  after- 
noon. Adam  stood  a  little  while  outside  the  gallery  watch- 
ing the  sun  light  and  mottle  the  great  spaces  of  Merrion 
Square.  He  wished  he  had  his  bicycle  that  he  might  flee 
to  the  country,  but  that  bullock  in  the  Circular  Road  had 
ended  his  bicycling  days  for  a  long  time  to  come.  It  came 
into  his  mind  that  first  great  ride  of  his  when  he  had  climbed 
the  Hills  and  looked  down  on  Dublin  from  beneath  the 
thorn-tree  at  Killakee.  He  visualized  that  scene  again  and 
felt  an  imperative  need  to  revisit  it.  He  looked  at  his 
wrist-watch:  after  all,  the  thing  was  not  impossible;  at  all 
events  he  was  of  a  mind  to  try  to  do  it,  so  stepping  out  he 
turned  into  Stephen's  Green  and  taking  the  Terenure  tram 
to  its  journey's  end,  he  changed  there  and  went  on  to  Rath- 
farnham.  It  was  hot  as  he  strode  through  the  village  and 
hotter  still  when,  leaving  Ballyboden  behind,  he  pushed  on 
up  the  hill.  Long  before  he  reached  Killakee  he  felt  a  deadly 
languor  and  wished  he  had  not  embarked  on  this  adventure, 
particularly  as  the  country  roads  were  crowded  with  holiday 
folk,  and  char-a-bancs  passed  him  stifling  him  with  dust. 


262  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Higher  up,  however,  past  Air  Park,  there  were  few  ve- 
hicles. Still  higher  up  he  believed  himself  to  be  momentarily 
out  of  sight  even  of  foot  passengers,  when  brazen  music 
swelled  rhythmically  upon  his  hearing,  and  presently  he  met 
some  hundreds  of  men,  not  soldiers,  yet  marching  with  per- 
fect discipline  behind  a  brass  band.  The  face  of  one  young 
man  was  familiar  to  him,  though  he  gave  no  sign  of  recog- 
nition. .  .  .  The  music  had  passed  away  before  Adam  real- 
ized that  it  must  have  been  Patsy  Doyle,  who  once  sold 
papers  with  him  outside  the  Gresham  Hotel  and  had  helped 
him  that  night  of  the  trouble  with  Old  Comet.  Something 
told  Adam  that  those  young  men  with  whom  Patsy  marched 
could  not  be  friendly  to  such  old  men  as  Old  Comet.  .  .  . 
Yet  he  was  too  weary  with  walking  to  think  much  about  it. 

He  had  a  notion  of  getting  himself  some  tea  at  the  Inn 
that  called  itself  after  the  Hell  Fire  Club,  but,  finding  many 
cars  and  motors  outside  it,  decided  that  it  might  be  beyond 
his  means,  and,  passing  it  by,  turned  into  the  meadow  where 
the  thorn-tree  was,  and  under  the  thorn-tree  lay  down.  For- 
getting even  to  glance  at  the  prospect  he  had  once  admired, 
he  fell  asleep.  .  .  .  Once  he  was  wakened  by  some  animal 
smelling  at  his  hand,  and  he  looked  up  to  find  himself  gazing 
into  the  eyes  of  a  horse,  but  his  cry  of  surprise  sent  it 
wheeling  about  to  gallop  away,  and,  though  vaguely  con- 
scious that  the  sun  was  no  longer  to  be  seen,  he  went  off 
to  sleep  again. 

When  wakened  again  by  he  knew  not  what,  it  was  pitch 
dark,  and  he  could  see  nothing,  but  he  knew  that  something 
alive  was  very  near  to  him.  All  that  he  could  see  were  the 
lights  out  at  sea  and  their  glimmer  on  the  water  of  Dublin 
Bay,  but  he  knew  there  was  more  than  one  live  thing  near 
him,  and,  little  as  he  could  hear,  he  knew  them  to  be  male 
and  female.  That  knowledge  kept  him  very  still  until  they 
rose  and  moved  away.  .  .  .  Then  he  too  rose  and  followed 
them;  silently  they  clambered  up  towards  the  style  to  the 


ON  THE  EVE  263 

roadway,  shuffling  through  brake  and  slipping  over  moss, 
and  silently  he  followed  them.  When  he  reached  the  fence 
by  the  road  he  could  hear  their  feet  pattering  at  a  brisk 
pace  away  from  him  towards  Dublin.  Keeping  the  same 
pace,  he  followed  them:  they  were  vaguely  visible  now,  a 
black  patch  like  the  shadow  of  Siamese  twins  on  the  white 
road.  So  for  the  hour  and  more  down  to  Rathfarnham  he 
followed  them  at  an  even  pace.  The  lights  of  Ballyboden 
village  gave  him  a  more  definite  glimpse  of  them,  and  he 
thought  he  had  seen  both  before ;  particularly  he  thought  he 
had  seen  the  male,  and  he  stepped  out,  trying  to  draw 
nearer.  But,  as  though  they  suspected  an  eavesdropper, 
they  too  stepped  out,  and,  tired  as  he  was,  gained  on  him. 
They  reached  the  terminus  at  Rathfarnham  a  greater  dis- 
tance ahead  of  him  than  at  Killakee :  he  could  just  see  that 
they  were  both  pressing  into  an  overcrowded  tram,  when  the 
conductor  put  his  arm  between  them,  and  the  tram  growled 
off  with  the  female  upon  it  and  the  male  shaking  his  fist 
in  fantastic  silhouette  against  the  flashing  electric  light. 

He  disappeared  in  the  crowd  that  surged  round  to  storm 
the  next  tram,  which  rapidly  filled,  and  Adam,  pressing  his 
pace  to  the  double,  dodged  on  to  it  just  in  time  to  get  the 
last  seat  outside.  He  did  so  at  the  cost  of  treading  on  his 
neighbor's  toe,  who  snapped  out :  "You  bloody  young  muff ! 
Why  don't  you  look  where  you're  going  ?"  Adam,  who  was 
not  quarrelsome,  found  himself  apologizing  to  the  male  he 
had  pursued  from  the  field  at  Killakee,  recognizable  now  as 
the  youth  who  had  forced  him  to  ride  his  bicycle. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RUBICON 

THE  Monday  morning  broke  exquisitely  fair,  and  Adam, 
rising  early  from  a  sleepless  couch,  donned  a  spot-new  suit 
of  white  flannel  which  his  guardian  had  ordered  to  his 
measure  from  Kennedy  and  MacSharry's:  and,  although 
Adam  did  not  flatter  himself  that  he  was  a  beautiful  youth, 
he  was  confident  that  he  looked  comelier  in  this  suit  than 
in  any  other.  And  so,  although  towards  midday  the  sky 
filled  with  clouds  and  it  lightened  and  thundered  a  full 
hour,  and  poured  in  torrents  for  nearly  three,  he  could  not 
make  up  his  mind  to  change ;  but  left  St.  George's  Church 
behind  him  in  a  smoking  drizzle  of  rain  that  soon  took  the 
novelty  out  of  his  garments  and  some  of  the  black  out  of 
the  ribbon  on  his  straw  hat — for  Mr.  Macarthy  had  checked 
his  desire  to  have  one  similar  to  Mr.  O'Toole's. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  corner  of  Spring  Avenue  he 
looked  something  between  a  drowned  rat  and  Cupid  masquer- 
ading as  a  river-god:  but  the  sun  burst  from  the  clouds 
to  show  him  his  Caroline  emerge  from  her  dread  fastness 
fairly  in  time  for  her  tryst  with  him.  She  was  radiant,  with 
her  own  dark  charm  set  off  by  a  pink  summer  dress  and 
hat  and  parasol,  all  new  as  his  own  and  unspoiled  by  rain. 
Yet  was  it  disappointing  to  hear  her  greeting:  "Oh,  my 
dear!  Did  you  fall  down  a  drain?" 

Adam  answered  sulkily:  "You  said  I  was  to  come,  wet 
or  fine." 

Amiably  she  protested:  "But  why  ever  didn't  you  bring 
an  umbrella?" 

"Umbrella!"  Adam  snorted:  "I  never  had  an  umbrella." 

To  which  she,  of  course,  said :  "Why  didn't  you  borrow 
Mr.  Macarthy's?" 

264 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RUBICON  265 

Adam  pooh-poohed :  "He  never  had  such  a  thing  no  more 
than  me." 

It  was  unwise  of  him  to  take  that  attitude  with  Caroline, 
who  said:  "I  noticed  he  never  wore  an  overcoat.  ...  I 
suppose  you're  trying  to  be  like  him?" 

The  corners  of  Adam's  mouth  lowered  sulkily. 
"I  wouldn't  mind  being  like  him  when  I  come  to  his 
age." 

"You'll  never  come  to  his  age,"  she  retorted,  "if  you  go 
on  like  this.  You'd  better  be  off  home  to  change." 

Adam  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  "What  did  you  say 
on  Saturday  night?"  said  he. 

"I  was  only  talking,"  she  answered :  "just  a  bit  of  fun." 
She  drew  her  right  arm  through  his.  "Don't  be  cross  with 
me;  come  on." 

They  walked  quite  a  long  way  in  perfect  silence,  and  the 
exercise  and  the  strong  sun  glare  warmed  Adam's  feet  and 
dried  the  surface  of  his  flannel  suit. 

"You  look  lovely  in  your  new  clothes,"  she  volunteered 
at  last,  and  sent  Adam's  heart  heaven-high,  to  fall  again  as 
she  added :  "I  dare  say  Macarthy  looked  like  you  when  he 
was  a  child." 

"I  don't  see  that  I'm  at  all  like  Mr.  Macarthy,"  he  re- 
turned :  "I've  hardly  ever  heard  anyone  say  that  before,  and 
I  don't  see  why  you  say  it." 

"Why  wouldn't  I?"  she  expostulated,  but  with  an  air  of 
indifference.  "Haven't  you  the  same  sort  of  eyes?" 

Adam  admitted :  "They  may  be  the  same  color." 

Miss  Brady  shook  her  head.  "It  isn't  that,  for  yours 
are  a  strong,  lovely  blue,  and  his  are  faded  and  going  gray. 
It's  the  expression  in  them.  Most  fellows  with  blue  eyes 
look  at  you  as  if  they'd  like  to  humbug  you  if  they  could. 
But  your  eyes,  and  much  more  Macarthy's,  look  as  if  they 
could  humbug  you  if  they  wanted  to,  but  wouldn't  do  it  for 
all  the  world." 


266  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"Certainly,"  said  Adam,  after  pause  for  reflection;  "Mr. 
Macarthy's  no  humbug." 

"And  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Adam.  "I  won't  say  I  feel  so  strongly  about 
it  as  he  does.  For  I've  lived  a  harder  life,  maybe,  that  I 
couldn't  have  lived  at  all  without  some  humbug.  It  was 
meat  and  drink  to  me  when  I  first  remember." 

"Do  you  mean  you  were  very  poor  ?"  Miss  Brady  queried. 

"Starving,"  he  answered  in  a  word. 

"Lor!"  said  Miss  Brady.  "I  never  remember  our  being 
so  poor  as  not  to  be  respectable."  She  enlarged  on  this 
theme.  "My  mother  was  always  a  wonderful  manager,  and 
when  things  were  at  their  worst  she  could  always  poke  out 
another  few  shillings  somewhere.  .  .  .  You  wouldn't  think, 
to  look  at  her  now,  what  Ma  could  do  a  few  years  ago,  be- 
fore her  hair  and  complexion  went.  .  .  .  Having  so  many 
children,  you  know.  .  .  .  Then  she  was  nearly  as  gay  as 
me,  in  a  heavier  sort  of  way,  mind  you.  Now  she  sits  at 
home  all  day  and  grizzles.  She  and  Pa  make  me  quite  ill 
between  them.  But  he  was  never  any  use  except  for  being 
quick  at  figures  when  he  was  young.  Now  he's  got  some 
sort  of  brain  .  .  .  leisure,  do  they  call  it?" 

Adam  suggested  lesion. 

"Whatever  you  say  yourself,"  she  smirked.  "Don't  let's 
talk  about  Pa.  It  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  him.  ...  If  I 
was  in  that  state  I'd  make  a  hole  in  the  water." 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  said  Adam  pressing  closer  to  her. 
"Life  can  be  just  lovely." 

"Life's  just  lovely  for  you  and  me  to-day,"  she  said,  "be- 
cause we're  young  and  healthy  and  out  for  a  bit  of  fun.  .  .  . 
Don't  pinch  me  so,  and  I  won't  call  it  a  bit  of  fun  if  you 
don't  like,  but  that's  what  it  is  all  the  same,  you  know.  And 
I  wouldn't  have  come  if  you  were  going  to  be  too  serious 
about  it." 

"I  wouldn't  have  come,"  said  Adam,  "if  I'd  thought  you 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RUBICON  267 

couldn't  be  serious  about  it."  He  stopped  short  with  an 
air  of  going  no  farther  and  found  they  had  wandered,  how 
he  knew  not,  so  far  as  the  canal  bridge  on  the  Drumcondra 
Road.  It  was  a  difficult  place  to  talk,  with  people  passing, 
and  tram-cars  grinding  and  groaning  as  they  stopped  and 
went  on  again.  Yet  there  they  stood  showing  to  each  other 
their  inmost  souls. 

Miss  Brady  swung  her  little  bag.  "Serious,  of  course,  but 
not  too  serious.  You  can't  expect  a  young  lady  of  my  age 
to  be  so  serious  as  all  that  about  a  boy  of  fourteen  or 
fifteen." 

"I'm  not  so  far  from  sixteen,"  said  Adam. 

"What's  sixteen?"  she  returned.  "You  talk  as  if  it  were 
twenty-one." 

"Would  you  marry  me  if  I  was  twenty-one?"  he  asked 
eagerly. 

She  retorted :  "I  wouldn't  marry  you  if  you  were  a 
hundred.  .  .  .  Not  if  you  asked  me  a  hundred  times 
a  day." 

Adam  cried  out  against  this  cruel  wrong.     "Why  not?" 

She  shook  her  bag  and  her  head  in  unison  slowly  and 
mysteriously,  almost  as  if  it  were  a  ritual,  and  was  a  long 
time  saying:  "I  wouldn't  marry  any  man  except  the  one." 

And  Adam,  bringing  the  movement  of  his  stick  subcon- 
sciously into  rhythm  with  the  movement  of  her  bag,  was 
even  slower  in  asking:  "Do  I  know  his  name?" 

She  stopped  wagging  her  head  to  nod  and  then  pretended 
to  be  interested  in  a  paper  bag  afloat  in  the  canal. 

Adam  struck  the  ground  with  his  bamboo  cane.  "But 
you've  never  had  anything  to  say  or  do  with  him,"  he  pointed 
out  as  if  he  suspected  her  of  being  unaware  of  it. 

She  only  answered :  "Perhaps  that's  why  I  fancy  him  so. 
...  If  once  I  had  a  bit  of  fun.  .  .  ." 

Adam  groaned  to  hear  it  come  out  at  last. 

But  Miss  Brady  was  too  lost  in  her  own  thoughts  to  hear 


268  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

the  groan.  She  said:  "It's  a  queer  thing  now,  but  I  can't 
even  imagine  that." 

Adam's  groan  became  articulate.    "No  more  can  I." 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  she  laughed,  "how  could  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  if  I  could,"  said  he,  compressing  his  lips  and 
eyeing  her  wistfully. 

"You  look  very  like  Macarthy  now,"  she  said,  and  per- 
plexed him ;  for  he  could  not  conceive  that  his  guardian  had 
ever  known  the  emotion  filling  him  then.  She  went  on: 
"Would  you  marry  me  if  you  could?" 

Snapping  at  the  chance  he  cried  eagerly:  "Upon  my 
honor  I  would." 

"Hush!"  she  insisted,  dropping  her  hand  on  his  mouth. 
"What  will  people  think  we're  talking  about?" 

"What  does  it  matter,"  Adam  blurted,  "it's  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of." 

Her  hand  still  shadowing  his  mouth  she  answered  in  her 
softer  tone :  "But  it's  silly  to  talk  of  on  a  stony  old  bridge 
with  trams  and  cars  buzzing  by  all  the  time  and  people 
nudging  you  out  of  their  way."  She  looked  round  as  though 
forgetful  where  exactly  they  were.  "Let's  turn  down  on 
the  canal  bank  past  Mount  joy  Prison,  and  if  you're  good 
we'll  maybe  go  farther  still." 

Adam  said  something  about  going  to  the  Styx  edge,  which 
allusion  Miss  Brady  did  not  follow.  Meanwhile  he  found 
himself  with  her  by  the  canal  side ;  on  the  bank  away  from 
the  prison,  with  the  railway  running  below  them  on  their 
right.  They  walked  silently  a  little  way  until  she  touched 
again,  to  his  surprised  delight,  on  the  topic  nearest  his 
heart.  "If  I  was  willing  to  marry  you  and  you  were  old 
enough,  which  you  never  will  be  .  .  ." 

"Why  not?"  he  broke  in. 

She  pressed  his  right  wrist  with  her  left  hand  and  the 
handle  of  the  little  bag  hurt,  but  he  pretended  to  enjoy  it. 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RUBICON  269 

"Never  mind.  Listen  to  me :  even  if  we  could  get  married 
and  we  both  wanted  to  ...  which  I  don't  .  .  ." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  again. 

"Will  you  be  quiet,"  she  cried,  "and  listen  to  me." 

"I'm  listening  like  mad,"  he  asserted  sulkily. 

"Well,  suppose  everything  was  arranged  and  I'd  got  my 
trousseau  and  everything  .  .  ." 

"What's  a  trousseau  ?"  Adam  asked. 

She  stopped  and  stamped  her  foot.  "There  you  go  inter- 
rupting again,  and  what  a  little  silly  you  are  not  to  know 
what  a  trousseau  is.  I'll  show  you  some  day."  Then,  look- 
ing in  Adam's  eyes  and  finding  the  suggestion  wakened  no 
light  in  them,  she  added  :  "In  Walpole's  window  ...  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  interrupt :  I've  forgotten  what  I  was  going  to 
say." 

"About  being  married  to  me,"  said  Adam  trustingly. 

Once  again  to  be  crushed;  for  she  answered:  "No,  it 
wasn't.  It  was  about  not  being  married  to  you." 

"Caroline,"  whispered  Adam  piteously  as  she  seemed  to 
turn  away  from  him.  "You're  tormenting  me.  ...  I  can't 
stand  it.  ...  I'll  throw  myself  into  the  canal." 

"Why  not  the  railway?"  she  said  tauntingly,  so  that  he 
made  a  blind  rush  towards  it  and  would  have  leaped  the  low 
wall  had  she  not  caught  him,  saying  even  then  mockingly: 
"What's  the  use.  .  .  .  You'd  only  break  your  leg  and  maybe 
starve  to  death  before  a  train  came.  .  .  .  What  are  vou 
crying  for?" 

"You,"  sobbed  Adam  through  a  veil  of  tears. 

The  arm  that  restrained  took  a  softer  fold  around  him 
so  that  it  wellnigh  melted  into  an  embrace :  "Don't  cry,"  she 
whispered,  "remember  we're  out  for  a  bit  of  fun." 

"What's  fun  to  you  is  death  to  me,  as  the  frog  said  to  the 
boy,"  he  stuttered  half  laughing,  with  the  back  of  his  hand 
to  one  eye  and  his  rain-crumpled  handkerchief  to  his  nose. 


270  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"It's  not  only  frogs  might  say  that  to  a  boy,"  she  de- 
clared, "but  it's  the  first  I've  heard  of  a  boy  saying  it  to 
a  girl." 

"But  you've  been  teasing  me  ever  since  we  started  out," 
he  protested. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  be  doing  with  you  ?"  she  asked 
point  blank.  "If  I  knew  what  you  wanted  I  might  oblige." 
Her  mouth  opened  in  a  deliciously  merry  laugh :  "I'll  take 
my  oath  you  don't  know  yourself." 

Infected  by  her  mirth,  he  laughed  loudly  too,  and  cried 
hysterically :  "I  want  to  be  married  to  you." 

"And  I  tell  you  you  can't  be  married  to  me,"  she  re- 
turned; "for,  even  if  you  could,  Macarthy  wouldn't  let 
you." 

"How  would  he  prevent  me?"  asked  Adam,  a  shade 
doubtfully. 

"He'd  say  I  was  an  impudent  baggage,"  she  answered, 
looking  hard  at  him. 

Adam  met  firmly  her  gaze  as  he  declared :  "Mr.  Mac- 
arthy'd  never  do  the  like  of  that.  He'd  never  call  a  woman 
names." 

Miss  Brady's  face  was  wreathed  with  smiles :  "The  darl- 
ing man !"  she  ejaculated.  "The  oftener  you  name  him  the 
more  I  love  him.  .  .  .  And  I  love  you  because  I  can  talk 
to  you  about  him.  .  .  .  And  I  love  you  because  you  love 
him.  .  .  .  And  I  love  you  because  he  loves  you.  .  .  .  And 
I  love  you  because  you're  more  than  a  little  like  him  about 
the  eyes.  .  .  .  And  I  love  you  because  you're  reminding  me 
of  him  the  whole  time  we  spend  together." 

Her  litany  was  bitter-sweet  as  a  dream.  "But,"  he  an- 
swered, "being  loved  like  that  is  not  like  being  loved  for 
myself." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is,"  she  insisted,  "very  like  it.  ...  We  never 
love  people  for  themselves,  but  only  for  the  things  we  imag- 
ine about  them."  She  jumped  from  the  philosophical  ab- 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RUBICON  271 

stract  to  the  practical  concrete,  and  took  his  hand,  leading 
him  on  away  from  the  railway  wall.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
we'll  do  to-day  for  a  bit  of  fun.  .  .  .  What  was  the  name 
of  the  old  fellow's  daughter?" 

With  an  unaccountable  reluctance,  Adam  named  Josephine 
O'Meagher. 

"Josephine  O'Meagher,"  she  repeated :  "I  was  telling  you 
what  we'd  do  to-day  for  a  bit  of  fun,  wasn't  I?" 

"You  were,"  said  Adam  faintly. 

She  went  on.  "I'll  pretend  to  be  your  friend  Josephine 
O'Meagher  and  you  pretend  to  be  Macarthy."  She  amended 
her  proposition.  "I  mean  to  say,  that  I'll  pretend  that 
you're  Macarthy,  and  you  can  let  on,  if  you  like,  that  I'm 
your  friend  the  nun,  or  whatever  she  is.  ...  Mind  you, 
you'll  have  to  pretend  hard  if  she's  a  nun,  for  I'm  not  feeling 
like  one  to-day." 

"I'd  rather  not  pretend  anything  of  the  kind,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"All  right,  then,"  Miss  Brady  answered  with  cool  firm- 
ness, "we'd  better  go  home." 

Adam,  as  usual,  surrendered.  "I'll  pretend  anything 
rather  than  go  home." 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said:  "you  can  let  on  I'm  anyone 
you  like,  but  I'm  going  to  try  my  best  to  pretend  that  you're 
Macarthy,  so  mind  now,  don't  spoil  it." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  he  asked  pitifully. 

She  actually  sighed.  "Not  much.  ...  I  suppose  you 
needn't  do  anything  except  pretend  not  to  like  me." 

Adam's  face  betrayed  more  bewilderment  than  he  per- 
haps really  felt.  "How  can  I  pretend  that  you're  someone 
I  love  and  someone  I  don't  like  at  the  same  time  ?" 

Miss  Brady  scoffed  at  him  with  roguish  contempt.  "And 
you  educated  by  the  Jesuits !  I  am  surprised  at  you."  She 
broke  off  to  dance  a  step  or  two  gleefully.  "We'll  have  no 
end  of  fun."  She  swung  him  round  by  an  arm  encircling 


272  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

his  waist,  that  left  its  rosy  imprint  on  the  damp  white  flan- 
nel. "Come  along,  Macarthy,  there's  a  love." 

She  took  his  hand,  and  so  they  wandered  on  side  by  side, 
very  close  together,  to  the  end  of  that  stretch  of  the  canal 
and  along  the  tow-path  under  Westmoreland  Bridge  that 
carries  the  hearses  on  the  road  to  Glasnevin,  and  on  past 
the  smelly  flour  mills  to  where,  after  a  last  burst  of  railway 
track  and  slag  heaps,  the  canal  begins  to  leave  the  town  be- 
hind and  pursue  its  straight  way  to  the  west.  To  the  west, 
whither,  in  its  distant  and  palmier  days,  it  floated  handsome 
embarkations  bearing  King's  officers,  with  their  genteel  fami- 
lies, safer  and  more  comfortably,  if  a  trifle  slower,  than 
any  road  coach,  to  the  fortress  town  of  Athlone. 

Adam,  on  whom  the  freedom  of  Mr.  Macarthy's  library 
had  not  been  utterly  wasted,  thought  of  these  ghostly 
barques  that  had  once  made  proud  those  now  dreary  waters, 
dismal  now  as  the  tumbledown  grand  houses  in  which  those 
King's  officers  and  their  kind  had  lodged  and  married  and 
given  in  marriage.  Lord  Queenstown  wanted  those  days 
back  again :  Mr.  Macarthy  laughed  at  him.  Others,  like  the 
Marchesa  (herself  so  like  one  of  those  tumbledown 
houses),  wanted  to  return  to  ill-defined  days  dating  from 
the  times  ere  brick  was  used  to  build  a  wall  in  Dublin  city. 
Mr.  Macarthy  laughed  equally,  if  more  gently,  at  her.  Mr. 
Macarthy  regarded  all  trifling  with  the  clock  as  folly,  and 
held  that  the  most  wilful  could  tread  no  measure  that  was 
not  Time's.  Of  these  things  Adam  thought  as  he  wan- 
dered on  and  on  by  Caroline's  side  between  the  railway  and 
the  canal.  .  .  .  And  then  he  wondered  of  what  was  Caro- 
line thinking:  could  she  really  be  thinking  of  him  as  Mr. 
Macarthy,  while  they  walked  along  so  silently,  so  steadily 
together,  as  if  there  were  no  question  that  they  should  ever 
come  back? 

Suddenly  these  words  from  her  lips  fell  upon  his  ear: 
"Are  you  happy?" 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RUBICON  273 

"I  am  always  happy  with  you,"  he  answered :  not  that  it 
was  true,  but  he  wished  to  please  her. 

"Macarthy  would  never  say  a  humbugging  thing  like 
that,"  she  answered  vexedly :  "you'd  better  say  nothing  even 
when  I  speak  to  you.  ...  Or  else  you'll  spoil  everything 
even  now." 

Adam  did  not  see  what  there  was  to  spoil,  but  he  con- 
veyed in  dumb  show  his  desire  to  kill  no  joy. 

She  paused,  and  they  stood  a  moment  arm  in  arm,  close 
together,  looking  around  them.  All  was  hushed  except  that 
the  wind,  which  had  shifted  from  the  south-west  of  the 
morning  to  due  east,  and  rippled  the  canal  water,  brought 
them  the  chime  of  the  city  clocks  striking  five.  Adam 
thought  he  could  distinguish  the  peal  of  St.  George's  above 
the  others :  he  would  know  St.  George's  bells  anywhere,  if 
that  church  were  transported  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  or 
whisked  by  a  magician,  like  Aladdin's  palace,  to  Africa. 
He  could  still  see  the  steeple  from  where  they  stood  now, 
on  a  part  of  the  canal  bank,  deserted  at  this  hour  of  a  holi- 
day by  all  the  world,  but  interesting  as  of  old  to  him ;  for 
here  the  railway  line  bifurcated,  and  one  branch  swooped 
down  beneath  the  other  and  beneath  the  canal,  to  lose  itself 
in  the  distance  in  the  bowels  of  the  Phoenix  Park,  under 
the  road  where  he  recalled  that  strange  adventure  of  his 
with  the  lady  and  the  soldiers,  and  reappeared  ultimately 
leaping  the  river  Liffey  at  Kingsbridge :  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  canal  approached  the  Midland  Great  Western 
line  from  Broadstone,  which  the  line  on  their  side  jumped 
the  canal  to  join  and  be  merged  in  as  it  sped  on  its  way  to 
Athlone,  and  the  ultimate  Connacht,  from  which  Mr. 
O'Meagher  supposed  Caroline's  ancestors  to  have  come  on 
their  triumphant  march  to  that  blind  alley  called  Spring 
Avenue. 

In  the  sector  of  a  circle  between  the  canal  and  the  con- 
verging railway  line,  they  stood  on  a  squelching  hillock  of 


274  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

wet  turf  bathed  in  sunlight,  and  partly  hidden  from  pass- 
ers-by by  a  breastwork  of  moss-grown  slag.  It  was,  nor- 
mally, so  quiet  a  spot  that  Adam  had  seen  men  bathe  there 
naked  without  let  or  hindrance,  and  other  sights  which  pro- 
claimed it  an  established  sanctuary.  Miss  Brady  looked 
round,  north  and  south  and  east  and  west  she  gazed,  then, 
when  he  was  wondering  what  she  would  say  or  do,  she 
seemed  to  catch  sight  of  something  through  the  arch  of  the 
railway  bridge  across  the  canal. 

Silently  she  moved  forward  again,  taking  him  as  it  were 
captive  with  her ;  under  the  arch  they  passed  until  they  com- 
manded the  prospect  on  the  other  side.  There  was  not  a 
soul  in  sight,  nor  anything  stirring  but  the  smoke  of  a  loco- 
motive creeping  puffily  towards  them  from  the  western 
horizon :  even  when  the  clocks  had  stilled  and  the  east  wind 
fallen,  you  could  barely  hear  the  sound  of  it.  Adam  looked 
up  at  Miss  Brady  as  she  again  stood  still.  "What  are  you 
thinking  of?"  he  asked.  For  answer  she  put  her  finger  to 
her  lips  and  then  her  lips  on  his,  and  then  led  him,  all  trem- 
bling, back  to  the  squelching  hillock. 

Full  of  the  most  romantic  and  indescribable  emotion, 
Adam  was  cut  like  a  whip  by  her  next  words :  "Now,  Mac- 
arthy,  you've  got  to  do  what  I  tell  you.  Lie  down." 

Adam  protested.    "You  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  dog." 

Miss  Brady's  eyes  flashed  disapproval.  "I  knew  you'd 
spoil  everything  by  answering  me  back !  Will  you  lie  down 
or  won't  you  ?" 

"The  grass  is  wringing  wet,"  he  objected. 

"If  you're  afraid  of  rheumatism  at  your  age,"  said  Miss 
Brady,  "I'm  going  home  to  my  tea." 

"I'm  thinking  of  you  as  much  as  myself,"  he  honestly 
claimed. 

"I'm  afraid  of  nothing,"  said  Miss  Brady,  and  plumped 
down  on  the  hillock.  "Here's  a  bit  of  my  petticoat  for  you 
to  sit  on." 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RUBICON  275 

Adam  could  not  refuse  this  invitation.  The  earth  on 
which  they  lay  gave  off  a  warm  vernal  odor,  like  scent  in 
the  atmosphere  of  a  Turkish  bath. 

"Are  you  happy  now?"  asked  Caroline,  supporting  his 
head  on  her  arm. 

He  answered,  with  his  eyes  in  hers:  "I  mightn't  be  if  I 
were  Macarthy." 

"Then  be  yourself,"  she  whispered,  and  put  her  other  arm 
around  him. 

He  was  lost  now  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  blinded  by  her  face 
and  arms  and  hair.  Yet  his  ear  told  of  the  train  in  the 
distance,  audible  now,  and  creeping  nearer  and  nearer  out 
of  the  west  from  which  Caroline's  forbears  were  sprung, 
until  it  was  over  the  canal,  over  the  spot  where  they  had 
kissed,  and  thundering  by  them,  and  slowly,  slowly  away, 
puffing  and  groaning  slowly,  slowly,  down  the  line  by  the 
canal,  under  the  bridge  that  carried  the  hearses  to  Glasnevin, 
past  the  spot  where  he  had  offered  to  kill  himself  to-day, 
past  Newcomen  Bridge,  where  he  had  overtaken  Caroline 
the  day  he  chased  her  from  Pleasant  Street:  into  Amiens 
Street,  which  had  bounded  his  horizon  when  he  was  young, 
out  of  it  again  over  Beresford  Place,  past  Liberty  Hall  and 
the  Custom  House  and  the  Bristol  boat  and  the  waters  that 
drowned  Fan  Tweedy,  to  Westland  Row  :  past  St.  Andrew's 
Church  and  out  round  the  Bay  by  Sandycove,  where  had 
sped  the  happiest  moments  of  his  life,  through  Dalkey  tun- 
nel, where  he  first  felt  the  flame  that  was  consuming  him 
now,  and  on  to  Bray,  where  she  who  had  given  him  the 
greatest  happiness  of  his  life  had  chosen  to  pass  her  own 
life  as  a  cloistered  nun.  .  .  .  He  was  recalled  to  the  fleeting 
Now  by  Caroline's  voice,  gently  reproachful. 

She  was  whispering:  "Adam,  you  little  dreamer!  Tell 
me  your  dream." 

He  blushed  as  she  released  him  to  look  in  his  face,  yet 
he  answered  glibly:  "I  was  thinking  of  what  the  Playboy 


276  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

says  to  Pegeen  Mike :  'Let  you  wait,  to  hear  me  talking,  till 
we're  astray  in  Erris,  when  Good  Friday's  by,  drinking  a 
sup  from  a  well,  and  making  mighty  kisses  with  our  wetted 
mouths,  or  gaming  in  a  gap  of  sunshine,  with  yourself 
stretched  back  onto  your  necklace,  in  the  flowers  of  the 
earth.'  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  air.  "What's  all  that 
nonsense  you're  saying?" 

Despite  the  glow  that  came  from  her  to  him,  Adam  was 
shocked  at  her  ignorance.  "You've  seen  Synge's  'Playboy 
of  the  Western  World'  at  the  Abbey  Theater?  .  .  .  Caro- 
line, you  must  have!" 

She  answered  scornfully:  "As  if  I'd  go  to  a  dirty  hole 
like  that.  .  .  .  But  I  can  tell  you  that  this  time  yesterday  I 
was  hearing  a  fellow  read  me  bits  of  Shakespeare's  'Venus 
and  Adonis.'  " 

On  the  instant  Adam's  soul  rose  in  jealous  rage,  and  he 
felt  his  fingers  turn  into  claws.  "Tell  me  the  fellow's  name," 
he  cried. 

But  she  only  answered  as  hotly,  though  with  another  heat 
than  his :  "Never  you  mind.  That  was  only  a  bit  of  fun. 
.  .  .  Let's  pretend  this  is  something  different,"  and  she  bit 
his  lip  and  crushed  him  to  her:  and  he  felt  all  fury  and 
strength  and  sense  of  time  and  place,  of  past  and  present, 
go  out  from  him  within  the  magic  circle  of  her  thin  limbs. 
She  and  he  were  no  longer  Adam  and  Caroline,  nor  boy  and 
girl.  They  were  one  idea,  plunged  in  the  immemorial  seas 
of  creation,  sinking  or  swimming,  he  knew  not  which.  .  .  . 
Knew  nothing  but  that  reality  was  less  real  than  the  least 
real  of  his  dreams. 

Then  he  was  conscious  of  rain  falling,  faster  and  faster, 
upon  the  back  of  his  neck :  and  he  let  it  so  fall  for  a  while 
till  at  last  it  streamed  off  him  on  to  her,  and  she  said: 
"Adam  .  .  .  It's  raining.  .  .  .  Are  you  asleep?" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
ON  THE  FURTHER  SHORE 

THE  Bank  Holiday  ended,  as  it  had  threatened,  in  storm 
and  rain.  Its  full  evidence  broke  upon  Adam  and  Caroline 
as  they  left  the  canal  at  Drumcondra  Bridge  and  turned  into 
the  Circular  Road.  She  begged  him  to  go  straight  home, 
but  with  the  valiancy  of  young  blood  and  a  vibrant  sense  of 
voyaging  in  a  new  world  that  was  not,  after  all,  a  dream, 
he  brought  her  through  the  sheets  of  rain  to  her  very  door, 
and,  holding  open  the  creaking  gate,  bade  her  farewell. 
The  rain  ran  off  her  parasol  to  join  the  rivers  coursing  down 
his  neck  as  she  murmured :  "It  wasn't  just  fun,  Adam ;  was 
it,  dear?" 

Taken  aback  by  her  wistful  tone  and  an  odd  expression 
on  her  no  longer  merry  face,  he  could  only  for  answer  kiss 
very  humbly  her  hand :  and,  pressing  his  gratefully,  she 
whispered  in  his  ear:  "Adam,  my  little  true  love,  it  wasn't 
fun  for  me.  ...  I  was  mad  for  once.  .  .  .  I've  never  done 
such  a  thing  before."  She  added  fervently :  "I  hope  to  God 
you've  taken  no  harm  by  it.  Run  home  as  fast  as  you  can 
and  get  out  of  your  wet  things." 

"You're  wetter  than  I  am,"  he  chattered. 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  she  insisted.  "Nothing  matters 
to  me  but  you ;  come  and  see  me  again  as  soon  as  you  can, 
if  it's  only  to  tell  me  I've  done  you  no  harm." 

He  kissed  her  wet  hand  again,  noticing,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  that  she  shuddered  as  the  gate  creaked  between  them, 
and,  as  he  turned  away,  that  she  fumbled  awkwardly  with 
her  latchkey  letting  herself  in.  He  noticed,  too,  that  the 

277 


278  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

dye  of  her  pink  frock  had  transferred  itself  in  great  measure 
to  his  once  white  flannels.  But  he  rather  gloried  in  this  as 
he  doubled  out  of  Spring  Avenue  into  the  Circular  Road, 
facing  defiantly  the  torrent  of  rain  and  splashing  ankle- 
deep  through  pools;  for  was  not  this  wearing  of  Caroline's 
colors  a  mystic  symbol  of  their  first  exchange  of  love  ?  Not 
even  his  omniscient  guardian  could  possibly  guess  the 
meaning  of  these  rosy  stains:  and  not  to  him,  nor  anyone 
till  judgment  day,  would  Adam  divulge  this  secret  that  fired 
him  as  he  sped,  like  Puck,  through  the  mire  of  the  Dublin 
streets.  .  .  .  Only  he  wished  that  the  last  sound  he  carried 
from  Spring  Avenue  had  been  a  word  from  her  loving 
mouth  and  not  the  creaking  of  that  rotten  gate  and  the 
thud  of  that  sepulchral  door. 

In  Fitzgibbon  Street  he  was  checked  by  the  arms  of  some- 
one as  unprotected  from  the  tempest  as  himself.  "I  was 
coming  to  look  for  you,"  said  his  guardian.  "What  a  state 
you're  in." 

Adam  stuttered  with  surprise:  "I  didn't  know  you'd  be 
back  already.  .  .  ."  He  braced  himself  to  evade  an  answer 
to  the  question  where  he  had  been,  but  his  guardian  asked 
none. 

Mr.  Macarthy  only  said :  "Let's  run,"  and,  with  an  arm 
round  him,  rushed  him  up  the  hill  and  up  the  steps  of  the 
house  and  up  the  stairs  to  the  bathroom,  where  he  found 
himself  in  less  than  no  time  up  to  his  neck  in  steaming 
water. 

That  night  he  slept,  for  the  first  time  at  Mountjoy  Square, 
in  his  guardian's  own  bed :  Mr.  Macarthy  resting  on  a  fold- 
ing chair  in  the  sitting-room,  with  the  door  open;  for  he 
found  the  boy  had  developed  a  cough  and  a  temperature. 
For  the  moment  Adam  was  glad  of  this,  deeming  that  it 
saved  him  from  an  almost  inevitable  inquisition.  But  in 
the  morning  the  temperature  was  still  above  normal,  and 
Dr.  Ahern  came  to  pronounce  it  an  attack  of  pleurisy.  So 


ON  THE  FURTHER  SHORE  279 

Adam  spent  a  week  in  his  guardian's  bed  and  his  guardian  a 
week  out  of  any. 

Since  the  great  adventure  which  introduced  him  to  the 
luxuries  of  the  Mater  Misericordise  Hospital,  and  indirectly 
to  the  love  of  Caroline  Brady,  Adam  had  associated  the 
idea  of  illness  with  that  of  pleasure :  and  but  for  the  barrier 
which  it  set  up  between  Caroline  and  him,  he  would  have 
reveled  in  his  present  one.  But  not  all  the  comfort  lavished 
on  him  by  his  guardian  could  disguise  from  him  that  it  was 
unchivalrous  of  him  (to  use  a  word  he  had  come  to  like) 
to  lie  there  in  bed  and  leave  her  without  a  token  that  her 
kisses  had  not  been  thrown  away  on  him.  He  was  particu- 
larly anxious  when  the  Saturday  came  and  went  without  his 
being  allowed  to  leave  his  bed,  so  that  he  might  look  out  of 
the  window  to  see  if  she  passed,  much  less  walk  over  to 
Hollander's  in  Grafton  Street  to  watch  her  coming  out. 

All  that  Saturday  he  lay  thinking  of  her,  and,  as  the  bells 
of  St.  George's  Church  struck  five,  he  saw  her  sparkling 
eyes  alight  in  a  little  trim  figure  that  sprang  through  the 
hole  in  the  roller  blind  to  look  eagerly  around  for  him  (as 
eagerly  as  he  had  once  looked  round  for  her),  and,  still 
searching  eagerly,  her  little  purse  no  longer  swinging  on 
her  arm,  lest  its  bravado  should  attract  another  squire,  pass 
down  Grafton  Street,  past  Hodges  and  Figgis  and  the  music 
shop  and  the  house-agents  where  Bernard  Shaw  was  once 
a  clerk,  and  Ponsonby's,  and  the  tobacconist's,  and  the 
tourist  agency,  to  take  the  tram  at  College  Green.  And  so 
he  fancied  her  progress  as  far  as  Findlater's  Church,  maybe, 
though  that  was  out  of  her  road,  and  she  would  do  better 
to  change  at  the  Parnell  statue  for  the  tram  to  Summer 
Hill.  But,  for  his  sake,  he  imagined  that  she  might  at  this 
very  moment,  twenty  past  five,  be  walking  up  Gardiner's 
Row,  and  Denmark  Street,  past  Belvedere  (hating  it  for  his 
sake),  and  through  Gardiner's  Place,  and  stopping  at  the 
corner  of  Gardiner  Street,  undecided  whether  to  pass  the 


28o  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

house  on  the  north  side  or,  in  memory  of  the  night  they  had 
walked  it  together,  go  round  by  west  and  south  to  Great 
Charles  Street.  He  decided  that  her  practical  temperament 
would  lead  her  to  walk  past  the  house,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road,  so  that  she  could  look  up  at  the  window.  ...  A 
pang  of  jealousy  shot  through  him :  had  she  not  confessed 
to  looking  up  at  the  window  in  the  past  in  the  hope  of  seeing 
Mr.  Macarthy? 

His  reverie  was  broken  into  by  the  sound  of  voices  in  the 
sitting-room:  his  guardian's  and  another,  a  gentle  voice,  a 
woman's  voice,  a  girl's  voice,  a  familiar  voice — He  drew 
a  breath  full  at  once  of  hope  and  despair — was  it  Caroline  ? 
.  .  .  He  listened  fiercely:  no,  it  was,  he  confessed  unwill- 
ingly, too  cultured  for  Caroline :  and,  though  he  was  not 
prepared  to  admit  it  to  be  a  more  charming  voice,  its 
cadences  did  in  fact,  even  at  that  moment,  charm  his  ear 
with  their  cultivated  rhythm.  And  he  could  not  hide  from 
himself  that  it  was  with  joy  he  saw  the  doorway  brightened 
suddenly  by  the  winning  figure  of  Babs  Burns,  with  her 
brilliant  coloring,  not  so  very  unlike  Caroline  as  she  might 
be  if  magically  transformed  into  a  princess. 

"Well,  Adam,"  said  Barbara,  "we've  all  been  wondering 
what  had  become  of  you." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Adam,  bruskly  modest. 

"Well,  not  perhaps  everyone,"  Babs  admitted;  "but 
mother  asked  me  this  morning  why  neither  you  nor  Mr. 
Macarthy  had  been  near  us  for  so  long.  So  I  offered  to 
come  over  and  find  out." 

"And  the  offer,"  Adam  heard  his  guardian  say  in  his 
quiet  voice  in  the  next  room,  "was  enthusiastically  re- 
ceived." He  came  into  the  room.  "And  so  was  the  visit, 
by  all  concerned."  He  appealed  to  Adam :  "There  is  no 
one  in  the  world  you  could  be  better  pleased  to  see  than 
Miss  Burns,  is  there,  old  man?" 

And,  though  it  smote  his  conscience,  Adam  could  not  bring 


ON  THE  FURTHER  SHORE  281 

himself  to  say  there  was;  for  he  was  at  once  too  fluttered 
and  too  flattered  by  this  exquisite  being's  presence  beside 
his  bed  to  think  clearly  of  anything  else.  He  beamed  on 
Babs  Burns,  and  he  thought  Miss  Burns  looked  back  more 
than  kindly  at  him.  ...  It  pleased  him  to  think  that  he  was 
wearing  his  guardian's  most  beautiful  pajamas.  .  .  .  His 
guardian's  glance  traveled  paternally  from  the  one  to  the 
other :  "I  will  leave  you  two  young  people  alone,"  he  said. 
And,  having  placed  Miss  Burns  in  a  chair  by  the  bed,  went 
out  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

Adam  and  Babs  regarded  each  other  for  a  while  in  silence, 
as  two  young  animals  for  the  first  time  in  one  cage.  He 
was  relieved  when  she  at  last  broke  the  silence :  "I  love  lying 
in  bed,  don't  you?" 

"Sometimes,"  said  Adam. 

"I  love  it  always,"  Miss  Burns  declared,  "unless  there's 
something  on  that  I  want  to  do." 

"What  sort  of  a  thing?"  Adam  asked. 

Her  reply  was  a  little  vague.  "Oh,  anything.  Acting,  or 
concerts,  or  hunting,  for  instance." 

"Do  you  hunt?"  The  query  had  a  subconscious  note  of 
disapproval. 

"No,"  said  he,  "not  really.  How  could  I?  My  mother 
used  to,  but  that  was  when  she  was  well  off,  before  she 
married.  .  .  .  Not  really  well  off,  you  know,  but  better  off 
than  we  are.  We're  always  stoney-broke.  ...  I  have  rid- 
den to  hounds  twice  on  a  pony  in  Meath,  and  I  would  hunt 
if  I  got  the  chance.  ...  I  love  horses ;  don't  you  ?" 

"I  think  I  prefer  motors,"  said  Adam. 

"How  absurd,"  Miss  Burns  said  roundly.  "You  can't 
prefer  motors  to  horses  any  more  than  you  can  prefer  aero- 
planes to  angels.  .  .  .  You  wouldn't  prefer  an  aeroplane  to 
an  angel,  would  you?" 

Adam  said  he  thought  he  might  if  he  believed  in  angels, 
but,  as  he  had  lately  ceased  to  believe  in  angels,  he  had  really 


282  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

no  preference.  And  Miss  Burns  retorted  that  her  father 
did  not  believe  in  aeroplanes. 

"But  he  must  believe  in  them,"  Adam  insisted,  "for  there 
they  are,  whether  he  believes  in  them  or  not." 

"But  all  sorts  of  things  are  there  whether  you  believe  in 
them  or  not,"  said  Miss  Burns  with  a  brilliance  recalling 
her  mother's. 

Adam  demanded  what  there  was  there  in  which  he  re- 
fused to  believe,  and  she  answered  triumphantly :  "Well, 
for  instance,  Congregationalism  is  there,  and  you  don't  be- 
lieve in  that,  do  you?" 

Adam,  confessing  that,  so  far  as  he  knew  anything  about 
it,  which  was  not  far,  he  did  not.  She  continued :  "Of 
course  not ;  how  could  you  ?  How  could  anybody  ?  I  don't 
even  know  what  it  means,  and  neither  does  mother — though, 
mind  you,  she  was  a  Congregationalist  for  nearly  four 
months  before  she  became  a  Buddhist.  You're  not  a 
Buddhist,  are  you?" 

Adam  said  he  was  not  a  Buddhist,  and  she  went  on :  "I 
suppose  you're  a  Roman  Catholic?  I  wouldn't  mind  being 
a  Roman  Catholic.  There's  a  tradition  in  the  family  that 
my  grandfather  was  near  being  a  Catholic  at  one  time.  .  .  . 
But,  then,  he  did  so  many  things.  ...  I  like  the  smell  of 
Roman  Catholic  churches  when  they're  not  too  dirty ;  I  can't 
stand  the  smell  of  the  Church  of  Ireland,  respectability  gone 
sour.  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  is  Church  of  Ireland.  ...  I 
hate  all  religions,  don't  you?" 

Adam  agreed  that,  on  the  whole,  he  thought  he  hated  most 
religions  he  knew  anything  about :  but  he  sometimes  fancied 
there  might  be  something  in  Buddhism. 

"You  can't  hunt  if  you're  a  Buddhist,"  said  Miss  Burns, 
"so  what's  the  good  of  that?" 

"Can't  you  even  hunt  tigers?"  Adam  asked. 

"Tigers?"  snapped  Miss  Burns.  "I  can't  go  and  hunt  the 
tigers  at  the  Zoo;  the  poor  things  couldn't  run  away  if  I 


ON  THE  FURTHER  SHORE  283 

ran  after  them."    He  noticed  that  she  seemed  truly  sorry  at 
the  thought  of  their  being  unable  to  run  away. 

"But  you  could  go  to  India,"  Adam  suggested,  "and  hunt 
them  there." 

"And  who's  going  to  take  me  to  India?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Will  you?" 

"I  would  if  I  could,"  cried  Adam  eagerly,  oblivi- 
ous of  anything  but  the  excited  and  exciting  figure  by 
his  bed. 

Miss  Burns  laughed.  "Before  you  could  take  me  to  India 
I'd  be  a  fat  old  woman  with  a  lot  of  children.  I  love  chil- 
dren, don't  you  ?" 

So  far  parentage  had  taken  no  shape  in  Adam's  dream 
romances,  and  his  passion  blushed  at  the  thought  of  keeping 
company  with  procreation:  few  days  had  passed  since  it 
seemed  to  him  almost  a  sin :  yet,  suddenly,  he  heard  the 
words  leap  across  his  lips :  "I'd  love  to  have  children  by 
you." 

For  an  instant  Barbara  blazed  scarlet,  and  her  ringers 
closed  his  mouth,  which  kissed  and  found  them  the  most 
beautiful  fingers  it  had  touched.  "You  silly  boy,"  she  whis- 
pered fiercely,  "don't  talk  such  nonsense."  She  glanced  at 
the  door.  "What  would  he  think  if  he  heard  you  ?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  Adam  murmured;  "I  didn't  mean  to  offend 
you.  It  slipped  out." 

"You  didn't  offend  me,"  she  answered:  "it  only  hurt  me 
to  think  that  you  thought  .  .  .  That  anyone  might  think 
.  .  .  Never  mind."  She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "I  thought 
you  were  in  love  with  a  nun,  or  something  ridiculous,  like 
other  boys  of  your  age." 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Adam  apologetically,  "that  you  can 
only  be  in  love  with  one  person?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Miss  Burns.  "But  what  has  that 
got  to  do  with  it?  I'm  not  in  love  with  anybody,  and  I 
don't  mean  to  be.  .  .  .  And  if  I  were,  nothing  would  in- 


284  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

duce  me  to  let  the  person  I  loved  ever  have  the  smallest 
suspicion  of  it." 

"Not  if  you  were  married  to  them!"  Adam  gasped. 

"Oh,  you  never  marry  the  person  you  love,"  said  Miss 
Burns  with  slightly  husky  bravado.  "That's  all  a  fairy- 
tale." She  got  up  and  moved  about  the  room.  "Let's  talk 
of  something  else."  Standing  before  the  fireplace,  she  read 
the  'What  Rot!'  program  with  a  frown,  and  snapped  out: 
"Belinda  Bellingham !  What  rot  indeed !"  Then,  coming 
back  to  the  bed :  "That  reminds  me,  why  didn't  you  come 
to  the  Abbey  on  Thursday  night — oh,  I  forgot :  you  were  ill." 

"What  happened  at  the  Abbey  on  Thursday  night?"  he 
asked  listlessly;  "I  thought  the  company  was  over  in  Eng- 
land?" 

"The  ordinary  actors  are,"  said  Miss  Burns,  "but  didn't 
you  know  there  was  a  special  performance  of  Mr.  Tinkler's 
new  play?" 

Adam  shook  his  head.  "Mr.  Macarthy  said  nothing 
about  it." 

"Mr.  Macarthy  thinks  Mr.  Tinkler  a  silly  ass,"  said  Miss 
Burns,  "and,  of  course,  he  is,  but  I  don't  see  that's  any 
reason  why  Mr.  Macarthy  mightn't  have  come  to  see  me 
act." 

Adam  commenced  to  be  interested.  "I  didn't  know  you 
acted." 

"I  never  tried  it  before,"  she  pleaded,  "not  to  speak  of, 
but  I've  had  no  end  of  a  jolly  notice  in  the  Express." 

"Mr.  Macarthy  doesn't  think  much  of  dramatic  criticism," 
said  Adam,  adding,  in  an  effort  to  tone  down  in  mid-channel 
the  tactlessness  of  his  remark:  "I  mean  in  some  of  the 
Dublin  papers." 

"Oh,  but  this  notice,"  she  returned  triumphantly,  "was 
not  done  by  the  ordinary  critic.  It  was  sent  in  by  Marcus 
Pirn  specially." 


ON  THE  FURTHER  SHORE  285 

"The  chap  in  your  father's  office?"  Adam  asked  inno- 
cently. 

Miss  Burns  frowned.  "I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do 
with  it."  She  produced  a  crumpled  piece  of  newspaper  and 
threw  it  on  the  bed.  "There's  the  notice :  you  can  see  for 
yourself.  .  .  ."  Quite  in  the  manner  of  Caroline,  she  broke 
off  to  stamp  her  foot:  "It's  bad  enough  that  Mr.  Macarthy 
should  laugh,  but  when  it  comes  to  you !" 

"What  have  I  done?"  Adam  asked,  and  as  he  failed  to 
elicit  a  reply,  for  she  had  turned  her  back  on  him  to  study 
again  the  "What  Rot!"  program,  he  perused  the  critique. 

MR.  TINKLER'S  "DEIRDRE" 

"The  least  that  can  be  said  of  Mr.  Arthur  Tinkler's 
'Deirdre/  produced  last  night  with  overwhelming  success 
at  the  Abbey  Theater,  in  the  well-merited  absence  of  the 
Abbey  Players,  is  that  it  is  far  superior  to  Mr.  Yeats's  and 
the  late  J.  M.  Synge's,  and  falls  little,  if  at  all,  short  of 
Canon  Smithson's  version  of  the  same  romantic  theme. 
Everyone  knows  the  story  of  Deirdre,  which  is  to  Ireland 
what  Homer  was  to  Troy  in  the  practically  prehistoric  age 
when  knights  were  bold.  But  Mr.  Tinkler's  play,  it  is  only 
fair  to  the  Dublin  play-going  classes  and  masses  to  say,  is 
not  like  'When  Knights  Were  Bold/  It  is  a  superior  play, 
although  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  amusing,  but  certainly 
in  no  way  vulgar.  If  we  have  any  fault  to  find  with  Mr. 
Tinkler's  work,  it  is  that  his  writing  is  almost  too  refined. 
It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  his  Naisi  could  behave  in  a 
manner  unworthy  of  an  English  gentleman,  and  equally 
difficult  to  think  of  Deirdre  herself  (impersonated  by  the 
Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica  with  a  golden  voice  in  the 
many  emotional  passages  recalling  Duse  or  Bernhardt  at 
their  best)  as  a  wild  Irish  girl  even  of  that  uncertain  age. 


286  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Mr.  Tinkler  has  still  to  learn  the  art  of  portraying  Irish 
character  in  a  manner  that  will  please  the  more  cultivated 
among  what  are,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  the  most  culti- 
vated publics  of  the  world.  But  his  play  is  always  high- 
toned  and  has  some  really  interesting  moments,  particularly 
towards  the  beginning,  while  the  audience  are  yet  in  doubt 
as  to  what  is  the  author's  purport.  This  doubt  is,  more- 
over, fairly  sustained  to  the  end,  which  was  notably  well 
received  by  a  fashionable  and  apparently  interested  audience. 
"The  acting,  as  it  always  is  at  the  Abbey,  whatever  else 
happens,  was  simply  grand.  Besides  the  overwhelming 
Deirdre  of  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica  (so  well  known 
in  Irish  society  and  artistic  circles  on  the  Continent  and 
elsewhere,  as  Lady  Daphne  Page,  second  daughter  of  the 
late  Earl  of  Derrydown),  which  it  would  be  a  work  of 
supererogation  to  praise  further,  Mr.  Tinkler  himself,  who, 
apart  from  the  play  under  discussion,  is  an  author  of  world- 
wide fame  in  England,  and  who  will  shortly  publish  a  new 
book,  not,  we  believe,  his  first,  would  have  had  an  equally 
tragic  effect  as  the  ill-fated  Naisi  had  not  a  quite  uncalled 
for  modesty  made  his  reading  of  the  part  inaudible,  except, 
no  doubt,  to  those  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  be  upon 
the  stage.  If  we  have  criticism  to  offer  Mr.  Tinkler,  it  is 
that  he  should  remember  the  stage  of  a  theater  is  not  a 
drawing-room,  even  if  the  scenery  is  painted  so  as  to  de- 
ceive the  eye  into  this  delusion,  which  in  his  play  we  need 
not  remind  Mr.  Tinkler  that  it  was  not,  whatever  it  may 
have  been.  Where  all  the  parts  were  played  far  better 
than  could  under  any  circumstances  be  expected,  it  would 
be  a  work  of  supererogation  to  single  out  any  one  name 
for  special  praise;  but  we  may  particularize  as  typical  of 
the  general  perfection  the  First  Mute  of  Miss  Calvinia 
Macfie  (who,  it  is  an  open  secret,  is  said  to  be  the  gifted 
daughter  of  our  learned  fellow-citizen,  the  Solicitor-Gen- 
eral), and  the  Third  Eavesdropper  of  Miss  Barbara  Burns, 


ON  THE  FURTHER  SHORE  287 

the  charming  heiress  of  our  popular  fellow-townspeople, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burns,  herself  the  brilliant  hostess  and  ama- 
teur piano  player,  the  portrait  of  whose  father,  the  famous 
soldier  and  poetic  amateur,  Sir  D.  Byron-Quinn,  painted 
as  an  interesting  coincidence  by  the  once  Lady  Daphne 
Page,  is  one  of  the  handsomest  ornaments  of  our  national 
collection.  Each  of  these  young  ladies  was  in  their  own 
way  equally  inimitable :  Miss  Macfie  showing  unmistakable 
reserve  of  a  kind  for  which  even  her  best  friends  were 
unprepared,  and  Miss  Burns  was  no  less  successful  on  dif- 
ferent lines.  We  should  like  to  see  one  day  both  these 
ladies  in  the  title  role,  particularly  if  the  Marchesa  della 
Venasalvatica  would  impart  to  them  some  of  her  own  unique 
tragic  beauty  of  style." 

When  Adam  came  to  the  end  of  this  dissertation  he  tried 
to  look  as  if  he  were  interested,  but  held  his  peace. 

"Well?"  said  Miss  Burns,  when  she  saw  that  Adam's 
eye  had  reached  the  end  of  the  story,  and  was  obviously 
not  about  to  re-read  it.  "What  about  it?" 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Macarthy  appeared,  saying 
apologetically :  "The  long  silence  troubled  me ;  I  feared  you 
had  both  gone  to  sleep." 

The  last  word  twinged  Adam  again,  but  he  was  glad  of 
his  guardian's  return;  for  he  was  conscious  of  a  disability 
to  say  to  Miss  Burns  the  sort  of  thing  which  he  had  a  notion 
she  expected.  "Mr.  Macarthy  will  be  interested  to  read  of 
your  success,"  he  suggested. 

Said  Mr.  Macarthy :  "Not  at  all." 

Babs  stamped  her  foot  again.  "How  can  you  be  so  hor- 
rid? Am  I  less  interesting  than  other  people?" 

"Less  interesting  than  some,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "but 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  the  only  thing  of  any  interest 
about  Mr.  Tinkler's  'Deirdre.'  " 

"I  believe  you're  jealous  of  Albert  Tinkler,"  she  mut- 


288  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

tered,  and  Adam  wondered  whether  both  of  them  were  in- 
tended to  hear. 

Mr.  Macarthy  looked  at  her  reproachfully.  "I  admit 
that  he  is  my  successful  rival,"  he  said,  "in  the  affections 
of  Lady  Bland." 

Barbara  grimaced  half  angrily.  "I  don't  believe  he  was 
ever  in  love  with  Lady  Bland,  or  you  either." 

Mr.  Macarthy  shook  his  head  gravely.  "That  will  avail 
you  nothing  so  long  as  Lady  Bland  believes  it ;  if  you  can 
persuade  her  of  it,  he  might  be  released,  as  they  say  of  the 
cinematograph  films,  and  then  who  knows,  my  dear  Bar- 
bara, what  might  happen?" 

Barbara  burst  into  a  merry  laugh.  "I  know  one  thing 
that  would  not  happen,"  said  she :  "Mr.  Tinkler  would  never 
ask  me  to  marry  him."  Adam  knew  not  whether  to  be 
angry  or  pleased  at  this  suggested  remissness  of  Mr.  Tinkler. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "to  do  Tinkler  justice,  he  has 
too  much  respect  for  you  to  do  that." 

Barbara  frowned.  "Do  you  think  he  would  marry  Lady 
Bland  if  she  were  free?" 

"To  do  Lady  Bland  justice,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "she  has 
too  much  respect  for  herself  to  do  that." 

Miss  Burns's  eyes  filled  with  puzzlement.    "To  do  what?" 

"To  be  free  to  marry  Tinkler." 

"What  can  you  mean?"  Miss  Burns  dropped  her  voice. 
"Surely  he's  better  than  her  husband  ?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  nodded  portentously.  "Far  better.  .  .  . 
But  Sir  Adolphus  has  the  great  advantage  of  being  a  man, 
and  the  hour  he  dies  he  will  become,  in  Lady  Eland's  esti- 
mation, an  angel.  She  will  entirely  forget  that  he  was  a 
drunken  bully  once  that  he  is  no  longer  there  to  bully  her 
and  get  drunk,  whereas  Tinkler's  nothingness  will  be  al- 
ways before  her  eyes.  It's  quite  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
a  living  jackass  has  any  advantage  over  a  dead  hyena: 
though  when  both  are  alive  the  jackass  may  seem  the  less 


ON  THE  FURTHER  SHORE  289 

trying  company.  It  is  the  strong  and  not  the  virtuous  per- 
sonality that  conquers  death.  Hundreds  of  people  went 
into  hysterics  over  Parnell  when  he  was  dead  who  wished 
to  see  him  hanged  when  he  was  alive."  He  broke  off. 
"You  probably  know  that  poem,  if  one  may  stretch  a  point 
and  call  it  so,  of  your  grandfather,  Byron-Quinn  ?" 

Barbara  broke  in  excitedly:  "If  you  mean  'The  Dead 
Lover,'  I  set  it  to  a  sort  of  tune  of  my  own  the  other  day. 
Would  you  like  me  to  sing  it  to  you?" 

Mr.  Macarthy  shrugged  his  shoulders :  "If  you  remem- 
ber the  words,"  and  turned  carelessly  away. 

"Don't  be  horrid,"  Miss  Burns  pouted :  "Of  course  I  re- 
member the  words.  ...  At  least,  I  think  I  remember  the 
last  verse,"  and  in  her  deep,  moving,  almost  manly  little 
voice  she  sang: 

"But  though  in  my  grave  I  lie, 
I  laugh  deliciously 
At  the  foolish  living  lovers  that  are  dancing  over  me.  .  .  ." 

So  far  Adam  heard  and  no  further ;  for,  listlessly  turning 
the  scrap  of  paper  on  which  was  printed  Mr.  Marcus  Pirn's 
appreciation  of  Barbara  Burns  as  the  Third  Eavesdropper 
in  Mr.  Tinkler's  tragedy  of  "Deirdre,"  he  read : 

"BRADY:  At  n  Spring  Avenue,  Summer  Hill,  on  the 
7th  instant,  of  a  chill  contracted  on  Bank  Holiday,  Caroline 
Moira,  youngest  and  only  surviving  daughter  of  Alexander 
Brady,  Esq.,  of  the  Connacht  and  Leinster  Bank.  R.I. P." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
MR.  MACARTHY  ON  CAROLINE 

ADAM  lay  very  still  in  bed,  clutching  that  tragi-comic  scrap 
of  paper  in  his  fingers:  he  heard  the  voices  of  Barbara 
Burns  and  his  guardian  close  at  hand  languidly  discussing 
death  and  love:  at  least  she  was  talking  of  love  surviving 
death,  and  he  was  laughing  at  her.  She  was  saying:  "I 
know  positively  that  a  woman's  love  for  a  man  will  survive 
the  worst  humiliation  he  can  put  upon  her.  He  may  be 
cruel  enough  to  kill  her,  yet  she  will  go  on  loving  him." 

And  Mr.  Macarthy:  "Has  a  man  been  cruel  enough  to 
kill  you?" 

Then  Barbara :  "I  don't  exactly  mean  that." 

Again  Mr.  Macarthy:  "Has  he  killed  any  of  your 
friends?" 

And  Barbara:  "You  know  I  don't  mean  that." 

And  Mr.  Macarthy:  "Then  how  and  what  do  you  really 
know?" 

And  then  Miss  Burns  rather  plaintively :  "From  my  inner 
consciousness  I  know  that  a  woman's  love  for  a  man  will 
survive  anything." 

"A  Tabby  cat's  love  for  a  Tom  will  survive  anything," 
said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "so  long  as  nobody  drowns  the  kittens." 

"I  don't  think  that  that  was  at  all  a  nice  thing  for  you 
to  say  to  me,"  said  Miss  Burns  with  pursed  lips. 

"It's  not  the  sort  of  idea  that  occurs  to  Tinkler,"  Mr. 
Macarthy  confessed,  "but  if  it  did  Lady  Bland  would  be 
as  annoyed  with  him  as  you  are  with  me." 

Miss  Burns  was  softened.  "I'm  never  annoyed  with  you, 
but  I  don't  think  that  you  treat  me  at  all  nicely." 

290 


MR.  MACARTHY  ON  CAROLINE  291 

"If  you  don't  think  that  I  treat  you  nicely,"  said  Mr. 
Macarthy  gravely,  "I  think  you  ought  to  cut  me." 

Miss  Burns  made  a  dramatic  gesture.  "Why  do  you 
always  mistake  me?"  she  cried. 

"It  is  sometimes  more  convenient,"  he  answered  blandly : 
whereupon  she  dashed  into  the  other  room,  where  Adam 
thought  he  could  hear  her  sobbing:  but  on  Mr.  Macarthy 
following  there  was  laughter,  and  he  could  hear  his  guardian 
say :  "It  is  time  for  you  to  go  home ;  would  you  prefer  a 
car  or  cab?" 

Adam  heard  her  say  that  she  would  walk  and  his  guardian 
answer:  "You  will  not."  Still  arguing  the  point  she  went 
off  with  Mr.  Macarthy,  leaving  Adam  without  a  farewell 
and  the  newspaper  cutting  still  in  his  hand.  His  soul  was 
torn  with  conflicting  emotions ;  for  he  was  cut  to  the  quick 
by  Barbara  going  off  with  his  guardian,  oblivious  of  him- 
self :  shocked  with  himself  for  being  again  jealous  of  his 
guardian :  and  all  the  while  wondering  at  himself  for  being 
alive  when  Caroline  Brady  lay  dead. 

And  it  was  he  who  had  done  her  to  death,  or  at  least 
been  a  partner  to  her  self  foredoing.  .  .  .  He  thought  he 
saw  death  laughing  at  him  from  the  foot  of  the  bed.  .  .  . 
Love  and  Death.  ...  Of  these  things  Barbara  and  his 
guardian  had  been  talking  beside  his  bed  while  he  had  been 
knowing  Love  and  Death,  walking  with  them  hand  in  hand. 
.  .  .  What  did  those  others  know  of  Love  and  Death  ?  Bar- 
bara certainly  nothing.  .  .  .  His  guardian?  His  guardian 
knew  everything.  .  .  .  Did  he  know  about  him  and  Caroline, 
Caroline  who  was  lying  to-night  for  the  first  time  in  her 
grave  at  Glasnevin.  How  long  would  she  lie  there?  How 
long  do  bodies  last?  Hamlet  asked  that  question  of  the 
grave-digger  in  the  play ;  the  play  .  .  .  Barbara  Burns  was 
acting  in  a  play,  pretending  to  die  perhaps,  while  Caroline 
was  really  dying  last  Thursday.  .  .  .  And  to-day  he  was 
making  love  to  Barbara  as  he  had  never  made  love  to 


292  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Caroline.  .  .  .  And  Caroline  lying  in  her  grave,  whom  four 
days  ago  he  had  loved  as  he  would  never  love  Barbara.  .  .  . 
Caroline's  body  was  lying  in  her  grave  stiller  than  he  lay 
now  in  his  bed.  .  .  .  God!  The  coldness  of  lying  there  in 
a  coffin  six  feet  deep  in  the  clay  of  dreary  Glasnevin.  .  .  . 
What  nonsense  he  was  talking.  Poor  Caroline  was  lying 
there  dead  and  senseless  as  an  old  cat  on  a  dust-heap  beside 
the  canal.  .  .  .  Beside  the  canal.  .  .  .  Dead  as  a  cat  whose 
kittens  were  drowned  or  a  deader  cat  that  had  borne  no 
kittens.  .  .  .  Why  had  poor  Caroline  been  ever  alive? 
Why,  being  alive,  had  she  for  many  moments,  unforgettable 
moments,  controlled  every  impulse  of  his  soul  ...  ?  Of  his 
soul,  what  of  her  own  soul?  What  of  the  soul  that  had 
left  three  days  ago  the  body  of  Caroline  Brady,  the  body 
in  whose  arms  he  had  lain  last  Monday  on  the  canal  bank, 
and  to-day  had  passed  over  the  canal  bank  to  lie  to-night 
for  the  first  time  in  the  grave  at  Glasnevin  ?  Was  the  soul 
of  Caroline  still  with  her  body,  battling  with  her  coffin  lid 
to  break  forth  to  him  ...  ?  Or  was  it  flinging  itself 
through  a  wave  of  endless  fire  against  the  gates  of  hell? 
.  .  .  Was  it  perhaps  calling  to  him  to  come  to  her  there  if 
he  loved  her? 

A  sweat  burst  forth  all  over  him :  he  shook  with  some- 
thing that  was  fear  and  still  more  rage.  With  a  spasm  he 
plunged  out  of  bed  and  knelt  on  the  floor,  as  once  he  had 
knelt  on  the  floor  of  the  Mater  Misericordiae  Hospital,  to 
pray  for  the  soul  of  Emily  Robinson,  but  in  far  other  mood. 

"God !"  he  cried,  "God !  I  cannot  see  that  she  and  I  have 
sinned  against  any  person  or  any  thing.  But  if  it  pleases 
You  to  say  we  have  sinned,  then  let  the  punishment  of  both 
be  mine,  for  I  can  better  bear  punishment  than  she.  But 
I  cannot  bear  that  she  should  be  punished  because  of  me." 
He  raised  his  voice:  "Come,  oh  God!  strike  me  now.  I'm 
not  a  bit  afraid  when  I  think  of  her."  Then  his  voice 
quavered  into  sobs  as  he  thought  of  the  utter  pitifulness 


MR.  MACARTHY  ON  CAROLINE  293 

of  her  end,  and  the  thought  of  her  lying  dead  in  her  grave 
at  Glasnevin,  deaf  even  to  the  knowledge  that  he  was  striv- 
ing at  the  uttermost  cost  to  come  to  her  aid. 

Mr.  Macarthy  returned  to  find  him  prostrate  on  the  floor, 
hysterically  cursing  and  sobbing.  But  the  suggestion  of  his 
guardian's  presence  rapidly  soothed  him  and  his  head  had 
not  been  long  on  the  pillow  when  he  found  himself  telling 
calmly,  and  almost  with  detachment,  the  whole  story  of  his 
connection  with  Caroline  Brady,  from  their  first  meeting 
below  the  steps  of  the  hospital  in  Eccles  Street  to  their  part- 
ing by  the  creaking  gate  in  Spring  Avenue.  He  did  not 
shrink  from  a  faithful  reproduction  in  substance  of  his 
Caroline's  allusion  to  his  guardian  himself. 

Adam's  interest  in  life  was  so  great  that  he  found  him- 
self studying  his  guardian's  face,  even  as  he  told  him  what 
he  deemed  to  be  a  rare  and  tragic  tale.  But  Mr.  Macarthy's 
face  betrayed  nothing :  more  than  ever  Sphinx-like  with  the 
ghost  of  a  wistful  smile.  At  the  end  he  said :  "You  may 
sleep  soundly  to-night,  Adam ;  for  it  is  certain  you  cannot 
sleep  so  soundly  as  your  little  lady-love." 

Adam  scrabbled  nervously  the  hem  of  his  sheet.  "You 
don't  think  .  .  ."  Words  failed  him. 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  thinking:  it  is  one  of  moral  cer- 
tainty," said  Mr.  Macarthy  gently  but  firmly.  "The  poor 
child's  troubles,  so  far  as  they  are  in  any  sense  compre- 
hensible to  the  human  brain,  are  over  once  and  for  all. 
She  is  better  dead." 

Adam  looked  up  startled.     "Better  dead,  sir?" 

His  guardian  nodded  gravely.  "So  far  as  I  can  form  an 
opinion,  she  is  better  dead." 

"I  wish  I  could  have  seen  her  first,"  said  Adam,  though 
not  really  sure  of  this  in  his  mind. 

"You  could  have  done  no  great  good,"  his  guardian  an- 
swered, "but  you  may  feel  confident  that  you  did  her  no 
harm.  Indeed,  her  affection  for  you  was  probably  the 


294  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

tenderest  and  most  gracious  emotion  of  her  sad  little  life, 
and  I  like  to  think  that  you  may  have  been  her  last  thought 
ere  she  died." 

Adam's  throat  choked  as  he  said:  "I'll  never  forget  her, 
never.  That's  all  I  know."  He  broke  off :  "But  she  never 
talked  as  if  her  life  was  sad." 

"It  was  full  of  the  saddest  of  all  possibilities,"  said  his 
guardian,  "and  that  is  why  she  is  better  dead  now,  before 
she  even  suspected  what  these  possibilities  were." 

"I  would  have  married  her,"  Adam  protested,  "the  mo- 
ment I  was  old  enough." 

Mr.  Macarthy  shook  his  head.  "You  would  not,  and,  to 
do  the  poor  child  justice,  I  don't  believe  she  would  have 
married  you." 

"You  think,"  said  Adam,  after  a  long  pause  for  cogita- 
tion, "after  all,  you  do  think  that  her  life  was  futile?" 

"I  do  not,"  his  guardian  directly  answered.  "Her  life 
was  not  futile.  She  has  been  a  good  friend  to  you,  and  I 
hold  you  to  your  promise,  never  to  forget  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
GROWING  UP 

IT  seemed  as  if  the  cause  that  slew  Caroline  gave  Adam 
a  stronger  grip  of  life;  for,  in  spite  of  the  risks  he  ran, 
leaving  his  bed  and  the  fever  of  remorse  he  was  flung  in  by 
the  news  of  her  death,  the  next  morning  Dr.  Ahern  pro- 
nounced him  convalescent,  and  in  a  few  days  he  was  about 
again,  with  a  sharpened  appetite  for  all  the  wonders  of  this 
world,  which  daily,  under  the  interpretation  of  his  guardian, 
was  becoming  more  wonderful  to  him.  Caroline  Brady,  his 
first  love,  was  dead :  but  all  things  else  were  more  than  ever 
alive :  they  were  alive  that  summer  with  the  presage  of 
conflict,  and,  as  autumn  drew  nigh,  Death  himself  seemed 
to  come  alive,  when  Adam  heard  the  shooting  by  the  river 
bank,  when  the  King's  soldiers  shot  down  unarmed  civilians, 
and  a  few  days  later  the  soldiers  of  half  the  kings  of  the 
earth  were  so  occupied.  Winter  found  the  world  at  war. 

Winter  wore  through  with  the  world  still  deeper  at  war, 
and  Adam's  birthday  was  honored  by  the  revelation  of  a 
new  variety  in  the  sport  of  kings,  when  there  drifted  across 
the  plains  of  Flanders  the  first  whiff  of  poison  gas.  But 
Adam  was  less  interested  in  this  new  method  of  slaughter 
than  in  the  fact  that  he  was  at  last  sixteen,  and  felt,  though 
he  did  not  look,  a  man.  Already  he  had  gone  to  the  Muses 
Club,  though  only  on  Saturday  evenings  and  other  occasions 
of  special  sufferance,  as  a  child :  now,  by  his  guardian's  in- 
fluence and  a  general  tacit  consent,  a  point  was  stretched 
by  the  committee  to  admit  him  to  membership :  and,  despite 
his  youth,  he  became  not  the  least  popular  member  of  that 
community,  even  among  the  men.  Only  Mr.  Leaper-Cara- 

295 


296  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

bar,  C.B.,  remained  consistently  his  enemy,  and  the  poet 
Tinkler  was  at  pains  to  cheapen  his  achievements.  The  pair 
of  them  had  little  in  common,  but  they  were  agreed  in  a 
frequently  expressed  regret  that  a  young  fellow  so  notori- 
ously wanting  in  breeding  should  be  foisted  on  them  by  one 
suspect  of  revolutionary  opinions,  with  as  little  awe  for  Mr. 
Leaper-Carahar's  official  authority  as  for  Mr.  Tinkler's 
poesy. 

The  plethoric  dignity  of  the  one,  and  the  slim  elegance  of 
the  other  were  equally  ruffled  by  the  intrusion,  and  would 
foregather  in  prominent  places  to  express  a  joint  disap- 
proval. On  them  the  Marchesa,  as  head  of  the  extreme  pro- 
Adamites,  waged  a  war  untrammelled  by  the  traditional 
courtesies  of  even  civil  strife:  and  they  fought  at  a  peculiar 
disadvantage.  For,  although  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  daily  ad- 
vised his  department  that  she  ought  to  be  hanged,  socially 
he  could  not  refrain  from  crawling  before  her  as  the  Earl 
of  Derrydown's  daughter :  and  the  poet,  who  had  consented 
to  her  playing  Deirdre  solely  in  consideration  of  her  having 
been  at  school  with  Lady  Bland,  went  in  bodily  fear  of  her 
since  she  had  beaten  him  with  her  umbrella  at  the  dress 
rehearsal  of  his  masterpiece.  Mr.  Marcus  Pirn,  who  claimed 
to  have  been  privileged  to  be  present  on  this  occasion,  re- 
ported (though  not  in  the  columns  of  the  Express)  that 
the  poet  had  divulged  his  opinion  that  the  Marchesa  was  no 
lady,  and  she  had  retorted  that  he  was  an  hermaphrodite. 
But  he  damaged  the  credibility  of  this  story  by  quoting  from 
a  too  obviously  imaginary  letter  from  Lady  Bland,  protest- 
ing against  her  old  schoolfellow's  insulting  language.  Mr. 
Pim  was  more  entertaining  as  a  conversationalist  than  with 
a  pen  in  his  hand:  when,  as  even  the  amiable  Mr.  Burns 
admitted,  he  became  like  a  bad  journalist,  only  worse.  His 
own  attitude  towards  the  great  controversy  was  that  of  a 
trimmer :  he  thought  Adam  should  not  be  admitted  on  equal 
terms  to  the  society  of  ladies,  and  more  particularly  that 


GROWING  UP  297 

of  Miss  Barbara  Burns :  but  he  also  thought  that  it  would 
be  injudicious  for  him  to  quarrel  over  such  a  trifle  with 
the  ladies  in  question,  to  say  nothing  of  the  mysteriously 
cogent  Macarthy,  for  whom  he  had  early  invented  the 
sobriquet  of  "The  Hidden  Hand." 

As  for  Mr.  Macarthy's  interest  in  his  young  friend,  Mr. 
Pirn  never  experienced  any  difficulty,  at  all  events  after 
dinner,  in  accounting  for  that.  It  was  more  difficult  to 
account  for  the  Marchesa's:  but  Mr.  Pirn  had  a  theory 
which  he  defended  as  not  impossible.  After  all,  Burke  gave 
the  Marchesa's  age  as  only  sixty-three,  and  Adam  was  get- 
ting on  for  seventeen.  .  .  .  Stranger  things  had  happened. 
He  remembered  when  he  was  a  kid  someone  telling  him 
that  the  wife  of  an  emergency  man  near  Killrush  had  twins 
on  her  fiftieth  birthday,  although  the  lot  of  them,  mind  you, 
were  under  a  boycott  at  the  time,  which  you'd  think  would 
have  depressed  her  spirits.  And  there  was  no  denying  that 
Adam  resembled  both  the  Marchesa  and  his  guardian.  The 
former  likeness  struck  Mr.  Pirn,  the  latter  was  the  more 
obvious  to  Barbara  Burns.  "But,  more  than  anything,  he 
reminds  me,"  said  she,  "of  the  portrait  of  my  grandfather 
the  poet,  in  the  National  Gallery." 

"Poet,  indeed:  is  that  what  you  call  him?"  said  Mr.  Pirn, 
posing  his  spatted  feet  on  the  club  fender,  with  his  back 
against  the  mantelpiece.  "Sure,  your  grandfather,  Sir 
David  Byron-Quinn,  was  an  officer  in  the  cavalry :  he  only 
wrote,  just  as  I  do,  to  please  himself." 

"I  don't  think  he  wrote  at  all  like  you,"  said  Miss  Burns, 
meaning  to  hurt,  but  failing  in  her  intent.  "Do  you  re- 
member when  that  picture  of  him  was  done?" 

"I  do,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Pirn;  "I  mean,  I  could  tell  you 
when  it  was  done.  ...  It  was  done  by  the  Marchesa  when 
she  came  back  from  Paris,  where  she'd  been  working  under 
Stevens,  or  Boldini,  or  one  of  these  fellows,  about  the  time 
I  was  born.  She  and  Byron-Quinn  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  with 


298  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

a  whistle.  "I  often  wondered  what  it  was  that  attracted 
the  Marchesa  to  Macarthy." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  the  girl  asked  angrily. 

"Why,  about  the  time  you  were  born  they  were  great 
flames,"  said  Mr.  Pirn  with  an  oleaginous  smile,  "just  as 
about  the  time  I  enlightened  the  world  with  my  presence  she 
was  a  great  flame  of  your  grandfather's.  You  mightn't 
think  it  to  look  at  her,  but  she's  a  great  war-horse,  is  the 
old  Marchesa,  what  the  French  call  a  grongammerroo.  And 
it  occurred  to  me  this  moment  that,  although  Macarthy  goes 
in  for  being  a  Socialist  and  all  that  sort  of  blatherumskite, 
his  mother  was  a  pretty  close  cousin  of  Byron-Quinn's." 

"Was  she?"  said  Barbara;  "then  that  would  make  her  a 
connection  of  mine,  but  I  never  heard  my  mother  mention 
her." 

"I  dare  say  not,"  said  Mr.  Pirn  with  a  quizzical  air,  "but, 
anyhow,  it's  natural  enough  that  young  Macfadden,  as  they 
are  pleased  to  call  him,  should  resemble  all  three." 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Miss  Burns,  suppressing  a 
desire  to  garrotte  Mr.  Pim  with  his  fashionable  necktie  and 
then  place  his  remains  upon  the  fire  before  which  he  so  ele- 
gantly balanced  himself.  So  will  the  gentlest  young  woman 
desire  to  entreat  the  most  ardent  lover  when  he  touches  im- 
pertinently on  the  subject  of  the  one  beloved:  and  Adam 
was  soon  aware  that  there  were  moments  when  Miss  Burns 
looked  kindly  upon  Mr.  Macarthy,  though  he  was  not  yet 
aware  that  she  had  accepted  her  mother's  brilliant  decision 
that  she  should,  if  possible,  marry  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B. 

Except  at  such  moments  as  he  was  proving  himself,  or  at 
least  appearing  to  prove  himself,  of  service  to  her,  Barbara 
regarded  Mr.  Pim  as  rather  a  futile  toad,  but  his  capacity 
as  a  compendium  of  scandalous  chronicles,  only  too  willing 
to  be  consulted  and  to  find  out  what  he  did  not  know,  gave 
him  a  definite  value  in  her  eyes,  enabling  her,  as  it  did,  to 
take  a  distinguished  part  in  the  conversation  of  her  elders. 


GROWING  UP  299 

She  was  deeply  interested  to  know  that  there  was  some  con- 
nection, however  slight,  between  her  blood  and  Stephen 
Macarthy's.  From  Mr.  Pirn's  tone  she  judged  that  he  knew 
more  about  this  matter  than  he  had  put  in  words.  With 
affected  nonchalance,  she  said  to  him :  "Of  course,  I'd  for- 
gotten that  Mrs.  Macarthy  was  a  distant  cousin.  Mother 
always  says  we  have  too  many  relations,  particularly  poor 
relations,  to  remember  them  all.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Macarthy  died 
young,  didn't  she?" 

Mr.  Marcus  Pirn  cleared  his  throat  with  the  air  of  making 
an  important  announcement :  "Very  young.  ...  In  point 
of  fact,  she  died  when  Stephen  was  born." 

Barbara  gave  a  little  cry  of  dismay.  "How  sad  for 
Stephen !"  she  exclaimed.  "And  I  suppose  his  father 
brought  him  up  then?" 

Mr.  Pirn's  eyes  squinted  along  the  cigarette  he  was  light- 
ing. "Mr.  Macarthy  brought  him  up,"  said  he. 

"Adam  is  very  like  his  father,"  she  said  quickly. 

Mr.  Marcus  Pirn  looked  at  her,  inhaled  deeply,  almost 
succeeded  in  blowing  a  successful  smoke-ring  into  the  air, 
and  said,  following  with  his  eyes  the  abortion:  "Do  you 
tell  me  so?"  He  appeared  to  be  about  to  enlarge  upon  the 
subject  when  he  caught  her  eye,  and  decided  instead  to 
announce  merely  his  need  to  write  a  letter. 

Adam  accepted  as  inevitable  Barbara's  weakness  for  his 
guardian.  He  knew  from  Caroline  Brady  that  it  was  pos- 
sible for  a  woman  to  be  in  love  with  that  middle-aged  and 
rather  dowdy  gentleman  even  without  hearing  him  talk :  and 
when  he  talked  he  had  the  power  to  hold  most  people, 
young  or  old.  He  conceived  that  Barbara's  feeling  for  his 
guardian  was  much  the  same  as  his  own,  only  complicated 
by,  what  he  regarded  in  this  instance  as,  the  unfortunate 
difference  of  sex.  He  felt  sure  that  her  affection  for  Mr. 
Macarthy  did  pot  preclude  the  possibility  of  her  feeling 
affection  for  him.  And,  indeed,  it  did  not. 


300  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Nevertheless,  she  resented  Mr.  Macarthy's  prescience 
when  he  told  her  that  one  day,  sooner  or  later,  she  would 
find  Adam  the  most  attractive  man  in  her  circle.  "Where 
will  you  be  then  ?"  she  asked  him  sharply. 

"Still  on  earth,  I  hope,"  he  answered,  "and  not  too  old  to 
be  interested  in  your  interests." 

"You  never  cared  a  fig  about  my  interests,"  she  cried,  in- 
discreetly loudly  for  a  conversation  at  the  Muses  Club. 

"I  have  considered  your  interests  more  than  my  own,"  he 
answered,  "so  far  as  I  am  able  to  differentiate  between  my 
own  interests  and  those  of  the  people  in  whom  I  take  an 
interest." 

"I  believe  you  love  the  Marchesa  more  than  me,"  she 
pouted. 

"Your  tone  of  voice  implies  that  you  do  not  believe  it,"  he 
responded  thoughtfully. 

"But  you  don't  deny  it,"  she  snorted  with  indignation. 

Mr.  Macarthy  was  unmoved,  saying  judiciously :  "I  deny 
that  I  love  her  more  in  the  sense  you  appear  to  have  in  your 
mind  at  the  actual  moment.  .  .  .  But  what  has  this  to  do 
with  Adam?" 

"Adam  ?"  echoed  Miss  Burns :  "even  if  I  wanted  to,  and 
he  were  old  enough,  d'you  think  my  people  would  allow  me 
to  marry  Adam  Macfadden?" 

"Do  you  purpose  to  consult  them  as  to  your  husband?" 
said  Mr.  Macarthy  drily. 

Miss  Burns  let  her  eyes  fall.    "Why  not?" 

"I  was  under  the  impression,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "that 
I  once  heard  you  saying  you  valued  no  opinion  except  mine." 

"That,"  she  retorted  quickly,  "was  when  we  both  thought 
the  same." 

Smoothly  he  returned:  "But  now  you  think  the  same  as 
your  parents?" 

"Mother,"  said  Miss  Burns  lamely,  "Mother  says  she  had 
the  same  trouble  as  I  when  she  was  young." 


GROWING  UP  301 

Mr.  Macarthy  laughed  outright.  "I  don't  believe  a  word 
of  it.  I  might  as  well  say  that  I  have  had  the  same  troubles 
as  Adam  Macfadden." 

In  a  second  Barbara  turned  on  him :  "Then  it's  true  what 
Marcus  Pirn  says?  You  are  his  father?" 

Mr.  Macarthy's  laugh  faded  into  his  normal  wistful 
smile:  "I  wish  it  were  true,  for  both  our  sakes,"  he  said 
gently ;  "for  I  believe  Adam's  father  to  be  even  a  less  pre- 
sentable member  of  society  than  myself." 

"And  yet  you  think  him  good  enough  for  me  to  marry?" 
she  said  with  half  real  indignation. 

"I  confess,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "that  Adam's  undoubted 
mother  and  probable  father  do  not  move  in  that  sphere  of 
which  his  grandparents  were  once  luminous,  if  erratic, 
stars." 

Barbara's  eyes  brightened  at  the  thought  of  romantic  mys- 
tery. "Is  he  really  and  truly  of  good  family  ?" 

Mr.  Macarthy's  smile  was  more  than  ever  Sphinx-like: 
"I  hope  you  will  not  think  it  snobbish  of  me  to  mention  my 
confidence  that  his  grandfather  was  a  baronet  and  his  great- 
grandfather an  earl." 

"Oh,"  said  Barbara,  "I  wish  I'd  known  that  before.  .  .  . 
Do  you  really  want  Adam  to  marry  me  more  than  anyone 
else?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  simply ;  "I'd  rather  he  married 
a  girl  called  Josephine  O'Meagher." 

Miss  Burns  frowned.    "Isn't  she  a  nun?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy ;  "she  was  to  have  entered 
last  Corpus  Christi,  but  I  managed  to  persuade  .  .  ." 

Barbara  looked  to  see  why  Mr.  Macarthy  had  stopped, 
and  saw  him  abruptly  open  the  folding-doors  to  discover 
a  lady  of  uncertain  age,  not  perhaps  so  old  as  she  was  young, 
apparently  polishing  the  carpet  nails  next  the  threshold. 

"Oh,"  said  the  lady  quite  coolly,  as  she  met  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy's eye,  "is  that  you  ?  I've  lost  sixpence." 


302  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"My  dear  Miss  Macfie,  you  will  break  your  father's 
heart,"  was  Mr.  Macarthy's  gentle  answer  as  he  passed  her 
to  go  downstairs.  Miss  Macfie  laughed,  not  prettily.  Many 
considered  her  not  unattractive :  Mr.  Pim  had  described  her 
in  his  most  triumphant  epigram  as  one  who  ought,  for  her 
own  sake,  if  no  one  else's,  to  get  married :  that  sufficiently 
described  Miss  Macfie.  Her  laugh  died  away  with  Mr. 
Macarthy's  footsteps :  though  the  mocking  expression  lin- 
gered on  her  face  as  she  said  to  Barbara :  "Alone  with  him  ? 
What  would  Leaper-Carahar  say?" 

"Have  you  never  been  alone  with  him?"  asked  Miss 
Burns  with  the  futility  of  one  hopelessly  at  bay. 

"I  am  not  engaged  to  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar." 

"Who  said  that  I  was?"  Barbara  returned. 

"Your  mother,"  came  the  quick  riposte. 

Poor  Barbara,  driven  to  unwonted  forgetfulness  of  gram- 
mar, asked:  "Who  did  she  say  it  to?" 

She  was  struck  hard  by  the  reply:  "To  Leaper-Carahar 
himself." 

"You  mean  to  say?"  cried  Barbara,  sorely  hurt. 

"I  mean  to  say,"  came  Calvinia's  last  overwhelming 
broadside,  "that  to-day,  after  lunch,  I  heard  your  mother 
say  to  him,  in  this  very  room,  that  she  considered  you  as 
good  as  engaged  to  him." 

In  spite  of  herself,  Barbara  put  the  fatal  question :  "What 
did  he  say?" 

"What  could  he  say?"  was  Calvinia's  coup  de  grace. 
"You  know  what  a  man's  like  after  luncheon.  I  suppose  he 
said  he  hoped  he'd  make  you  happy.  And  I  hope  he  will. 
.  .  .  He  wouldn't  me :  I'd  almost  rather  have  Macarthy." 

"I  hate  you!"  screamed  Barbara,  clenching  her  hands. 

"You  always  did,"  returned  Calvinia,  eyeing  her  scorn- 
fully. "D'you  think  I  care  a  damn  whether  you  do  or  not  ?" 

Adam,  entering  the  room  at  this  point,  found  them  out- 


GROWING  UP  303 

staring  one  another,  and  asked  in  innocence :  "Are  you  re- 
hearsing 'Deirdre'  or  what?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  your  friend  Barbara  is  play- 
ing at,"  declared  Miss  Macfie,  and,  with  a  gesture  of 
disdain,  she  flounced  away,  leaving  the  door  open  be- 
hind her. 

This  Barbara  carefully  closed,  and  then  drew  Adam  over 
to  the  window,  whence  they  looked  down  upon  the  Green 
and  that  noble  effigy  which  many  take  to  be  St.  Stephen, 
but  was  intended  by  the  artist  to  resemble  King  George  II. 
Adam  did  not  see  this  work  of  art,  but  only  the  tears  in 
Barbara's  eyes,  and  he  put  his  arm,  respectfully  affectionate, 
around  her  slim  waist.  Thereupon  she  whispered:  "You 
dear  little  thing,"  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck. 

At  length  she  said  again:  "I  wish  you  were  old  enough 
now  to  take  me  to  India,  and  that  we  could  start  now."  The 
words  were  murmured  just  loud  enough  for  him  to  hear  and 
be  fired  by:  but  she  checked  his  ready  torrent  of  affection 
by  adding,  very  matter  of  fact :  "You're  not,  and  never  will 
be.  ...  So  what's  the  use  of  talking?  Let's  go  and  drink 
tea  at  Mitchell's  instead." 

Though  he  had  been  thinking  of  Josephine  all  day,  and 
wondering  if,  after  all,  Mr.  Macarthy  would  triumph  and 
keep  her  in  the  world  until  he  grew  fully  to  man's  estate, 
Adam's  heart  was  curiously  high  and  happy  as  Barbara  and 
he  walked,  body  fluttering  by  body,  past  the  Shelbourne 
Hotel,  where  first,  as  a  ragged  infant,  he  had  witnessed  the 
existence  of  a  life  that  was  something  more  than  a  struggle 
for  food  and  drink,  and  down  Grafton  Street  to  Mitchell's. 
He  forgot  what  a  little  while  had  passed  since  he  walked 
down  it  with  Caroline  Brady,  and  noticed  for  the  first  time 
that  Hollander's  was  almost  opposite  Mitchell's :  but  it  was 
open,  and,  perhaps  because  he  saw  it  from  the  other  side 
of  the  street,  seemed  different  from  what  it  had  been  when 


304  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

he  met  her  coming  out.  And  yet,  he  remembered  now  how, 
on  his  thirteenth  birthday,  leaving  Mitchell's  with  Barbara, 
he  had  seen  Caroline,  no  doubt  coming  out  of  Hollander's, 
and  wondered  if  she  had  been  her  own  ghost. 

Then,  in  the  restaurant,  that  old  notion  of  indefinite 
identity  came  over  him,  and  Barbara  seemed  to  him  in  a 
sense  Caroline :  Caroline  as  she  ought  to  have  been,  if  only 
the  gods  had  been  good  to  her.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
any  girl  of  her  age  could  be  more  happily  circumstanced 
than  Barbara  Burns,  with  her  charming  form  and  cultured 
mind  and  manifold  physical  and  mental  accomplishments: 
to  say  nothing  of  being  the  only  child  of  her  brilliant  mother 
and  rightfully  popular  father.  To  him  Barbara  Burns,  as 
she  loosened  her  pretty  wraps  and  showed  her  pretty  throat, 
peeping,  all  milk-white  innocence,  at  him  from  the  other 
side  of  the  little  table  at  Mitchell's,  or  leaning  forward  to 
listen  to  his  undertone  so  that  her  elbows  kissed  his,  seemed 
the  human  embodiment  of  a  fairy  princess.  The  embryonic 
critic  lurking  in  his  brain  whispered  that  the  charm  lay  in 
her  having  a  spice  of  Caroline's  devilry,  without  a  taint  of 
Caroline's  coarseness:  but  the  romantic  trumpeted  persist- 
ently that  in  the  past  love  had  been  joy  slain  by  death,  in 
the  present  triumphant  over  it.  For  sure,  Adam  had  known 
no  happier  hour  than  that  with  Barbara  Burns  at  Mitchell's, 
during  which  he  dreamt  himself  her  accepted  lover. 

It  was  cooling  when  she  commenced,  with  an  abrupt  move- 
ment, to  gather  her  things  to  go :  deadly  chilling  when  she 
resisted  his  effort  to  pay  their  bill :  "No,  no,  my  dear  little 
man,"  she  said;  "you  know,  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  wouldn't 
like  it." 

"Leaper-Carahar !"  cried  Adam,  driving  the  nails  into  the 
palm  of  his  ungloved  hand. 

Barbara's  fingers  on  his  lips  (just  like  Caroline)  silenced 
him.  "You  must  have  heard  we  were  engaged." 

Adam  thrust  from  his  lips  the  hand  he  had  almost  kissed. 


GROWING  UP  305 

"If  I  had,  I'd  have  said  it  was  a  damned  lie !"  he  stormed. 
"Damn  you  and  your  Leaper-Carahar !" 

Then,  conscious  that  he  was  making  a  scene  Barbara  was 
endeavoring  to  hide,  he  fled  from  the  lighted  shop  and  blun- 
dered into  the  wintry  darkness  of  Grafton  Street,  his  ringers 
gripping  the  throat  of  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  more 
apoplectic  in  Adam's  green-eyed  phantasy  than  in  reality. 

At  the  corner  of  Nassau  Street  a  draught  of  north-east 
wind,  driving  sleet  across  the  College  park,  cooled  his  re- 
vengeful pride  and  wakened  shame.  He  heard  his  own 
voice  saying  to  his  lady-love  of  a  moment  ago :  "Damn  you 
and  your  Leaper-Carahar !"  in  the  same  blasting  rage  as  he 
had  once  cursed  Father  Tudor  and  his  Three  Divine 
Persons. 

And  some  other  memory  stirred  within  him.  .  .  .  Per- 
haps the  first  of  his  life.  .  .  .  Was  it  not  just  with  such 
frantic  cadence  he  had  once  heard  his  mother  shriek  at  his 
godfather:  "Damn  you  and  your  Emily  Robinson"?  .  .  . 

What  did  that  mean,  if  even  in  those  distant  days  she  had 
not  been  infatuated  with  O'Toole?  .  .  .  Then  a  lurid  light 
pierced  his  brain  and  established  there  an  idea  which,  by  the 
time  he  reached  Noll  Goldsmith's  kindly  pitiful  effigy,  had 
become  a  settled  conviction.  Clinging  to  the  College  rail- 
ings, he  pressed  his  forehead  close  against  them,  and,  while 
the  trams  groaned  and  thundered  and  clashed  their  bells 
behind  him,  he  thought :  "O'Toole  begot  me.  .  .  .  God !  what 
•a  filthy  thing  is  love." 

He  had  been  standing  thus  he  knew  not  how  long,  when 
a  familiar  deep  voice  spoke  down  at  him :  "You  are  ill,  my 
friend ;  I  think  you  live  in  my  direction,  Mountjoy  Square." 

Adam  let  go  the  railings  and  nodded  silently. 

"You  had  better  take  my  arm  and  we'll  walk  on  together," 
said  the  big  man.  Adam  obeyed,  and,  as  they  crossed  by 
Tommy  Moore's  statue  to  Westmoreland  Street,  said  me- 
chanically :  "Thank  your  honor,  and  God  bless  you." 


306  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

For  he  knew  that  he  was  being  cared  for  once  more  by 
Dr.  Hillingdon-Ryde,  who  had  been  kind  to  him  when  he 
was  a  child:  and  for  the  moment  he  was  struggling  with 
the  nightmare  of  being  a  child  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
OF  A  TOMBSTONE 

DR.  HILLINGDON-RYDE  delivered  Adam  into  his  guardian's 
hands  at  Mountjoy  Square.  "Our  young  friend  was  looking 
ill  when  I  passed  him  outside  Trinity.  So  I  suggested  that 
we  should  walk  home  together." 

He  said  no  more,  but  Mr.  Macarthy  read  the  surmise  in 
his  manly  eyes,  and  smiled :  "Adam  does  not  drink,"  he  said, 
"but  he  suffers  badly  from  nerves." 

"The  dickens  he  does,  poor  fellow !"  exclaimed  the  big 
man,  as  one  who  knew  them  not,  and  took  his  leave  with  a 
kindly  farewell. 

Mr.  Macarthy  produced  an  unwonted  half  bottle  of  claret 
and  put  it  before  the  fire.  The  warmth  of  it  restored  Adam 
to  his  normal  self  as  they  shared  it  for  dinner:  And  after 
dinner,  before  very  long,  his  guardian  saw  him  home  to  St. 
George's  Place  and  watched  him  go  to  bed. 

He  had  the  more  reason  for  this  since  there  was  no  one 
to  understand  Adam  at  St.  George's  Place  now :  Herr  Behre 
was  no  longer  to  be  found  in  the  eyrie  that  had  been  his 
refuge  while  a  whole  generation  of  Dubliners  were  born 
into  the  world  and  married  and  brought  forth  young,  and 
perhaps  left  the  world  again.  He  had  been  one  of  those 
who  declared  that  war  was  impossible :  "The  peoples  of 
Europe  will  not  sanction  it,"  he  insisted ;  "their  leaders  are 
not  that  cretin  Wilhelm  nor  that  slink-butcher  Poincare: 
The  men  that  matter,  the  leaders  of  the  people,  are  Lieb- 
knecht  and  Jaures.  .  .  .  There  is  no  enmity  between  them." 
But  when  Liebknecht  was  arrested,  and  Jaures  murdered, 

307 


308  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

he  packed  his  trunks,  saying:  "The  peoples  are  as  Gaderine 
swine :  the  devils  of  the  kings  are  entered  into  them."  When 
Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  hinted  that  the  Castle  would  not  allow 
him  to  leave  the  country,  he  laughed  in  his  face.  "I  am  not 
a  European,  Gott  sei  Dank :  I  am  an  American  citizen.  .  .  . 
I'll  leave  you  to  your  blood  feast."  And  Mr.  Leaper-Cara- 
har, though  well  practised  in  the  art  of  straining  the  law, 
was  regretfully  advised  by  Mr.  Solicitor-General  Macfie  he 
must  fail  to  stay  him.  So  Mr.  Macarthy  took  over  his  room, 
with  the  piano  and  all  therein  (save  the  portrait  of  the 
plain  woman  bearing  the  inscription  "Vorwarts")  and 
turned  it  into  a  study  for  Adam.  And,  for  love  of  Herr 
Behre,  and  partly  because  he  could  no  longer  bear  the  quaver 
of  "When  other  lips  and  other  hearts,"  Adam  would  pay  a 
Danegeld  to  the  cornet  player  every  Friday  night:  to  be 
rewarded  by  an  impressionistic  and  tentative  rendering  of 
"Die  Wacht  am  Rhein,"  which  the  inebriate  Mr.  Murphy 
on  the  first  floor,  being  a  Redmondite  in  politics,  would  rise 
and  partially  stand  to  honor,  believing  it  to  be  "God  Save 
the  King." 

As  Mr.  Macarthy  saw  Adam  to  bed,  he  continued  to  talk 
only  of  indifferent  things.  But  the  next  morning,  on  enter- 
ing as  usual  the  sitting-room  at  Mountjoy  Square,  Adam  was 
hailed  by  the  straight  question :  "What  passed  between  you 
and  Miss  Burns  at  Mitchell's  yesterday  afternoon?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Adam,  conscious  for  the  first  time,  as 
he  faced  his  guardian,  of  the  ludicrous  side  of  what  he  had 
deemed  a  tragedy. 

"Pardon  me  for  pointing  out  that  such  an  answer  is  un- 
becoming to  a  question  from  me  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy, and  the  words  fell  coldly  on  Adam's  understanding. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  answered,  calling  himself  to 
attention.  "I  see  now  I  behaved  badly  to  ...  to  Miss 
Burns  in  Mitchell's." 

"Why  did  you  behave  badly  ?"    Seeing  that  Adam  strug- 


OF  A  TOMBSTONE  309 

gled  vainly  to  answer,  Mr.  Macarthy  added:  "Do  you  sup- 
pose you  had  any  provocation  to,  shall  we  say,  make  an 
ass  of  yourself?" 

"Yes,"  said  Adam  boldly. 

His  guardian's  Sphinx-like  smile  perhaps  broadened  a 
hair's-breadth :  "She  provoked  you  to  make  an  ass  of 
yourself?" 

Adam's  forehead  sweated  to  the  answer:  "Yes." 

Mr.  Macarthy  went  on  sweetly:  "It  was  very  wrong  of 
Barbara  to  provoke  you  to  make  an  ass  of  yourself  in  a 
public  place.  If  you  may  tell  me,  without  breach  of  confi- 
dence, I  should  be  glad  to  know  how  she  did  it." 

Then  Adam  told  him,  with  a  reasonable  degree  of  ac- 
curacy and  no  deliberate  concealment,  all  that  had  passed 
between  Barbara  and  himself  from  the  moment  of  his  inter- 
ruption of  her  conversation  with  Calvinia  until  he  lost  his 
head  in  the  tea-shop.  His  coolness  dropped  from  him  as  he 
spoke,  and  the  narrative  ended  in  the  angry  cry :  "I  call  it 
disgusting  that  she  should  marry  Leaper-Carahar." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "but  apparently  she  does 
not  think  it  so,  or  you  may  be  quite  sure  that  she  would 
not  do  it." 

Adam  looked  at  his  guardian,  and  commenced  eagerly: 
"If  you  told  her  it  was  disgusting  .  .  ." 

His  guardian  stopped  him  with  a  peremptory  gesture.  "I 
have  no  right  to  interfere.  .  .  .  She  has  never  even  men- 
tioned him  to  me  as  a  possible  husband.  If  she  had  con- 
sulted me  .  .  ."  he  broke  off :  "We  have  no  right  to  suppose 
that  because  we  find  a  man  disgusting,  a  woman  will  find 
him  so."  His  tone  hardened:  "Your  poor  little  friend  did 
things  that  were  disgusting  to  you,  but  you  may  be  sure  they 
did  not  seem  so  to  her." 

Adam  blurted  indignantly :  "Barbara  Burns  is  very  differ- 
ent from  Caroline  Brady." 

His  guardian  eyed  him  gravely,  his  smile  now  purely  wist- 


3io  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

ful :  "Are  you  sure  of  that  .  .  .   ?  Circumstance  apart,  eh, 
are  you  really  sure  of  that?" 

Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I'm  sure  of  nothing,"  he 
said  sullenly;  "I  dare  say  all  girls  are  the  same  at  heart." 

"I  think  not,"  Mr.  Macarthy  declared;  "but  there  are 
varying  degrees  of  difference,  and  I  suggest  to  you,  for 
example,  that  there  is  less  difference  temperamentally  be- 
tween Caroline  Brady  and  Barbara  Burns  than  between 
Barbara  and,  let  us  say,  Josephine  O'Meagher." 

A  wave  of  unaccountable  indignation  swept  through  Adam 
as  he  growled :  "She  is  altogether  different." 

His  guardian's  answer  chilled  him :  "I  am  glad  you  think 
so,  though  I  beg  you  to  remember  that  I  do  not  suggest 
she  is  in  the  sum  of  all  things  better  or  worse.  All  that  I 
know  positively  about  her  is  that  she  appears  to  be  the 
most  selfish  of  all  three." 

Adam  fell  into  a  chair,  not  knowing  what  to  answer, 
when  his  guardian  went  on  "Anyhow,  if  Josephine  really 
enters  her  convent,  she  has  made  a  choice  away  from  us  and 
lies  outside  our  scheme  of  things." 

Adam's  mind  spoke  for  itself :  "She  hasn't  entered  yet." 

He  was  not  quite  sure  that  his  guardian  did  not  steal  a 
glance  at  him  as  he  answered :  "She  seems  determined  to  do 
so.  I  had  thought  that  it  was  her  mother's  fault  urging 
her  to  do  it,  but  it  seems  she  no  longer  wants  urging." 

"I'd  like  to  see  her,"  said  Adam. 

"There  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  doing  so,"  his  guardian 
pointed  out,  but,  Adam  offering  no  sign,  he  went  on :  "It 
seems  that,  after  all,  she  is  a  less  living  factor  in  your  life 
to  come,  at  all  events  in  the  immediate  future,  than  poor 
little  Caroline  in  her  grave."  He  added,  almost  solemnly: 
"I  am  convinced  that  that  unhappy  child  did  differ  from 
Barbara  in  one  way,  and  that  is  that,  in  her  fashion,  she 
deeply  and  unselfishly  loved  you." 

Adam  nodded,  his  face  buried  in  his  arms,  then  curiosity 


OF  A  TOMBSTONE  311 

roused  him  to  look  up  at  his  guardian.  "How  do  you 
know  ?"  he  exclaimed. 

"It  is  sufficient  that  I  do  know,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy:  "I 
do  know  that  she  loved  you,  and  you  are  aware  that  I  also 
love  you." 

Adam  nodded.  "I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  not  to  know 
that." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  laying  his  hand,  as  his 
way  was,  on  his  shoulder.  "Loving  you  as  I  do,  my  instinct 
tells  me  that  I  have  reason  to  be  grateful  to  her.  So  I  am 
showing  that  gratitude  in  the  only  way  I  can" — he  lifted  him 
by  the  arm.  "Up  with  you,  and  come  for  a  drive  with  me." 

Mr.  Macarthy  called  a  car  from  the  stand  opposite,  and 
they  drove  down  Belvedere  Place,  and  by  the  Circular  Road 
over  Phibsborough  canal  bridge,  and  then,  instead  of  con- 
tinuing, as  Adam  supposed,  to  the  park,  turned  by  Dumphy's 
Corner,  the  way  he  had  gone  with  Father  Innocent  long, 
long  ago  to  the  Botanic  Gardens.  But,  Westmoreland 
Bridge  passed,  they  turned  into  the  Prospect  Road  and 
stopped  at  the  cemetery  gates.  And  for  the  first  time  since 
he  had  prayed  at  the  grave  of  Malachy  Macfadden,  Adam 
entered  these  gates.  A  moment  later,  with  burning  eyes,  he 
read  these  words  on  a  simply-fashioned  slab  of  Connemara 
marble : 

CAROLINE, 

THE  FRIEND  OF  ADAM. 
R.I.P. 

"That  is  all  I  could  do,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "If  you  suc- 
ceed in  life,  I  take  it  that  you  will  keep  the  stone  clean.  If 
you  fail,  it  will  molder  away,  and  Caroline  be  forgotten 
with  her  friend." 

Adam  tried  to  say  something,  but  failed.  He  knelt  down, 
but  it  was  not  to  pray  for  Caroline :  it  was  to  kiss  the  stone 


312  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

that  covered  her.  He  fell  forward  on  it,  crying,  and  Mr. 
Macarthy  let  him  do  it. 

Presently  he  swung  him  to  his  feet,  saying  grimly: 
"Enough  of  that."  As  he  led  him  out  through  the  gates 
down  the  best-kept  paths  sprinkled  with  the  metal  tablets 
promising  "Perpetual  Care,"  he  continued,  in  the  same  dry 
tone :  "We  think  that  she  will  sleep  more  sweetly  there  than 
Barbara  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar.  .  .  .  But  who 
are  we  to  form  opinions  about  the  soul  of  any  woman?" 

Later  on,  when  they  had  regained  Mount  joy  Square, 
Adam,  in  tears  most  of  the  way,  though  not  unhappy,  his 
guardian  said  to  him,  gravely  cheerful :  "You  need  not  worry 
because  you  fancy  yourself  in  love  with  several  people  at 
the  same  time.  There  is  really  only  one  thing  about  women 
that  I  pretend  to  know — most  decent  men  love  every  woman, 
and  almost  every  woman  loves  a  decent  man.  But  what  I 
would  have  you  bear  in  mind  is,  that  if  a  man  ceases  to  be 
decent  I  think  he  will  find  that  decent  women  cease  to  care 
for  him."  There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  he  added: 
"I  do  not  say  that  this  is  finally  true :  but  so  far  it  appears 
to  me  to  be  true  within  my  experience.  Anyhow,  my  dear 
man,  never  be  depressed  about  the  women  you  fancy  have 
treated  you  badly.  Probably  it  is  purely  your  imagination, 
but,  mark  again,  if  you  suspect  yourself  of  treating  a  woman 
badly,  then,  believe  me,  you  cannot  worry  half  enough." 
He  wound  up  his  homily  with  the  impressive  caution :  "Be 
sure  that  it  is  yourself  you  worry  and  not  her.  .  .  .  Remorse 
helps  nobody." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
MRS.  LEAPER-CARAHAR'S  AT  HOME 

CHRISTMAS  passed,  and,  Lent  at  hand,  Barbara  Burns  mar- 
ried Mr.  Leaper-Carahar.  Mr.  Macarthy  found  an  excuse 
for  not  going  to  the  wedding  in  the  fact  that  there  was  a 
war  on.  A  little  while  before  he  had  brought  Adam  for  a 
change  of  air  to  Cork,  and  showed  him  Kilcrea  Abbey, 
which,  he  told  him,  was  the  inspiration  of  one  of  Sir  David's 
poems  which  Adam  had  learnt  to  recite  at  the  Muses  Club : 

In  by  the  hole  in  the  old  Abbey  wall 

My  love  and  I  passed  with  a  solemn  foot-fall, 

And  we  drove  out  the  dogs,  that  their  feet  might  not  tread 

On  the  lowly,  holy  bones  of  the  dead. 

And  she  turned  from  me,  in  the  cloistral  gloom, 
To  peer  through  a  reft  in  her  father's  tomb, 
And  she  shrank  from  the  sight  of  the  things  that  were 
And  the  foulness  that  moldered  upon  the  fair. 

And  she  cried :  "The  terrors  that  there  I  see, 
Are  they  one  day  to  come  to  me  ?" 
And  I  promised  her  then  that  when  she  should  die 
Then  I,  on  guard,  by  her  side  should  lie. 

One  moonlight  night  Adam  went  off  by  himself  and  tried 
the  effect  of  reciting  it  in  the  Abbey,  but,  frightened  by  rats, 
came  home  in  the  middle  of  the  third  line.  He  thought  it 
would  be  easier  to  keep  a  promise  of  this  kind  at  Glasnevin, 
and  consoled  himself  by  reflecting  that  the  baronet  himself, 
if  he  promised  anything  of  the  kind  in  real  life,  made  no 


3i4  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

effort  to  keep  it.  "D'you  suppose  that  poem  was  written  to 
anyone  in  particular?"  he  asked  Mr.  Macarthy. 

"I  suppose  it  was,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

"Do  you  know  ?"  Adam  pursued. 

"Know  what?"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  testily. 

"Who  the  lady  was  ?"  Adam  faltered. 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Macarthy  said,  in  a  tone  which  did  not  en- 
courage further  questioning. 

Adam  tried  plain  statement.  "I  suppose  it  was  the 
Marchesa?"  and,  as  Mr.  Macarthy  did  not  deny  it,  felt  some 
confidence  that  he  was  right. 

When  they  returned  to  town  Adam  informed  the  Mar- 
chesa that  he  had  visited  her  family  burial-place  with  his 
guardian.  The  Marchesa  looked  at  him  surprisedly :  "What- 
ever made  him  bring  you  there?"  she  asked,  and,  without 
waiting  for  answer  to  a  question  which  he  was  surprised  to 
find  her  so  little  interested  in,  she  went  on :  "Your  flame, 
Barbara  Burns,  is  back  with  that  loathsome  husband  of 
hers." 

Kilcrea  Abbey  was  at  once  forgotten,  and  the  affairs  of 
Sir  David  Byron-Quinn  vanished  before  those  of  his  grand- 
daughter. "Why,"  said  the  Marchesa,  "you've  gone  pale, 
you  don't  mean  to  say  you  really  care?  .  .  .  Why,  you're 
as  bad  as  Sir  David  himself.  The  say  he  fainted  once,  when 
he  was  seventeen,  when  he  heard  of  the  death  of  a  school- 
girl, just  as  the  other  Byron,  the  poet,  did.  Anyhow,  I'm 
rather  amused,  for  they're  giving  a  reception  at  their  new 
house  in  Waterloo  Road  next  week,  and  Mrs.  Burns  has 
insisted  that  I  must  go,  although  Mr.  Carahar,  you  know 
.  .  .  Well,  you  know  what  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  is,  don't 
you?" 

Adam  answered  between  his  teeth :  "I'd  like  to  knock  his 
head  off." 

The  Marchesa  stooped  and  kissed  his  forehead.  "Dar- 
ling," she  said,  "some  day  let  us  do  it." 


MRS.  LEAPER-CARAHAR'S  AT  HOME        315 

The  idea  of  assisting  the  Marchesa  to  knock  the  head  off 
Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  C.B.,  made  Adam  look  forward  to  the 
meeting  with  Barbara  Leaper-Carahar  with  greater  pleasure 
than  he  had  anticipated.  When  his  guardian  was  for  de- 
clining the  invitation  to  the  At  Home,  Adam  expressed  his 
desire  to  go ;  and  so  Mr.  Macarthy,  rejoiced  to  find  him 
recovered  from  his  love-sickness,  accepted  for  both. 

Yet,  the  day  of  this  first  At  Home  of  Mrs.  Leaper-Cara- 
har Adam  wakened  with  a  premonition  of  evil.  Calling  for 
Mr.  Macarthy  at  Mountjoy  Square,  he  told  him  as  much, 
and  Mr.  Macarthy  laughed.  "There  is  no  such  thing  as 
evil,"  said  he. 

"But,"  Adam  protested,  "I  feel  it  so  clearly." 

"So  do  all  Irishmen,"  his  guardian  explained:  "it  comes 
from  our  long  inheritance  of  fear.  I  am  terrified  in  my 
dreams  by  the  howling  of  a  banshee,  that  existed  only  in 
the  imagination  of  my  ancestors." 

"But  if  you  heard  the  howling  of  a  real  banshee?"  Adam 
suggested. 

"If  I  heard  the  howling  of  a  real  banshee,  it  would  give 
me  unqualified  pleasure,"  Mr.  Macarthy  assured  him,  "pro- 
vided that  I  knew  it  was  a  banshee  and  not  a  cat." 

"You  don't  believe  in  the  supernatural  at  all?"  Adam 
queried. 

"If  by  supernatural  you  mean  something  opposed  to  the 
natural,  I  do  not,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  firmly;  "but  if  by 
supernatural  you  mean  things  that  might  appear  unnatural 
to  a  congenital  idiot  like  your  friend  Leaper-Carahar,  or  a 
zany  such  as  Tinkler,  then  I  do  not  deny  the  existence  of 
such  supernatural  things.  I  will  grant  you  that  there  are 
more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  were  ever  dreamed  of 
by  the  committee  of  the  Kildare  Street  Club  or  the  senate 
of  either  of  the  universities.  ...  At  all  events,  the  knowl- 
edge of  them  has  not  been  recorded  on  the  minutes  of  these 
corporations,"  he  added  with  characteristic  caution. 


3i6  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"'Do  you  think  the  world  is  just  a  joke?"  said  Adam. 

"If  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "I  think  it  a  thundering 
good  one,  and  not  a  disgusting  piece  of  folly  as  it  is  repre- 
sented by  the  Fathers." 

After  all,  the  day  promised  to  be  an  amusing  one ;  for, 
lunching  at  the  Muses  Club  on  the  way  to  Waterloo  Road, 
they  encountered  Mr.  Tinkler,  in  a  new  fancy  costume,  and 
unusually  dapper:  his  breast  bulged  with  a  freshly  typed 
manuscript. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Burns,"  he  explained,  "has  induced  me  most 
charmingly  to  read  my  revised  version  of  'Deirdre'  to  the 
people  at  Mrs.  Carahar's  At  Home." 

"The  dickens  she  has !"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  smoothly,  as 
if  it  were  a  compliment.  "And  what  did  Leaper-Carahar 
say  to  that?" 

Mr.  Tinkler  looked  around  him  and  dropped  his  voice: 
"I  don't  think  he  knows  yet:  dear  Mrs.  Burns  means  it  as 
a  charming  surprise." 

"She  has  a  gift  for  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy. 

"She  has  indeed,"  Mr.  Tinkler  agreed,  "a  charming  gift. 
She  really  loves  poetry.  .  .  .  Even  my  poor  efforts.  .  .  . 
Though  I  know  that  I  am  not  as  great  as  some  people 
tell  me." 

"Come,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  filling  the  poet's  glass,  "You 
know  in  your  heart  that  your  poetry  is  much  better  than 
even  I  have  ever  pretended  to  think." 

"It  is  very  charming  of  you,"  said  the  poet  vaguely,  and 
emptied  his  glass.  "I  am  sure  that  you  would  never  say 
anything  you  did  not  mean,  any  more  than  dear  Mrs. 
Burns." 

Mr.  Macarthy  said  in  an  undertone  to  Adam :  "He  got 
home  on  me  that  time."  To  Mr.  Tinkler  he  said :  "You 
believe  in  necromancy,  don't  you?" 

"Necromancy,"    Mr.    Tinkler    repeated,    "of    course.     I 


MRS.  LEAPER-CARAHAR'S  AT  HOME        31? 

passed  through  that  stage  of  enlightenment;  I  did  believe 
in  it  until  dear  Lady  Bland  .  .  ." 

"Converted  you?"  Mr.  Macarthy  suggested. 

"I  was  not  going  to  say  quite  that,"  Mr.  Tinkler  declared, 
and  added,  looking  at  his  wine-glass,  which  Mr.  Macarthy 
had  again  filled:  "I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  say.  .  .  . 
Lady  Bland  and  I  ..."  he  broke  off  to  put  his  lips  to  his 
glass  again,  pouring  some  of  it  down  his  throat  and  more 
not,  which  seemed  to  recall  him  to  himself :  "Nobody  knows 
what  she  suffers  from  that  man,  that  man  .  .  ."  here  he 
dropped  his  serviette,  and,  looking  for  it,  continued,  in  a 
voice  that  was  muffled  by  the  tablecloth :  "It  is  natural  that 
she  should  have  the  illusion  that  she  is  carrying  her  cross 
to  .  .  ."  the  last  word  was  inaudible. 

"Very  natural,"  Mr.  Macarthy  agreed,  and  the  conversa- 
tion would  have  flagged,  but  that  Adam  took  it  up. 

"Where  did  you  say  Lady  Bland  was  carrying  her  cross  ?" 

"Did  I  say  that?"  Mr.  Tinkler  inquired.  "I  thought  we 
were  talking  about  necromancy." 

"We  were,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy.  "Our  friend  Adam  here 
dreamt  last  night  of  some  disastrous  happening  to-day,  quite 
in  the  manner  of  Plutarch,  you  know,  and  then  your  men- 
tioning the  reading  of  your  play  .  .  ." 

"My  God!"  said  Mr.  Tinkler,  "he  thought  I  might  have 
lost  the  manuscript !"  and  unbuttoned  his  breast,  suffering 
the  manuscript  to  escape  and  knock  over  his  wine-glass. 
"That's  nothing,"  he  explained  to  the  waitress;  "it's  safe, 
besides,  I  have  two  carbon  copies." 

"I  should  have  all  the  copies  carbonized  if  I  were  you," 
suggested  Mr.  Macarthy,  and  Adam  thought  his  guardian 
had  gone  a  little  too  far.  But  Mr.  Tinkler  gravely  explained 
that  in  typewriting  you  were  bound  to  have  one  top  copy. 

"Every  man  is  a  cad  at  times,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy  as  they 
left  Mr.  Tinkler  sobering  himself  with  coffee,  "and  you  have 
seen  me  behaving  like  one  just  now.  Nothing  can  be  more 


3i8  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

contemptible  than  to  make  game  of  a  man  whose  intellect 
you  despise." 

"Is  Mr.  Tinkler  really  very  silly?"  Adam  asked,  for,  in 
fact,  he  had  not  enjoyed  his  usually  urbane  guardian's  con- 
duct of  the  matter. 

Mr.  Macarthy  looked  at  him  almost  shamefacedly :  "I'm 
afraid  it  has  never  occurred  to  me  as  possible  to  take  any 
other  view  of  him,  but  that,  perhaps,  merely  shows  how 
unjust  I  can  be  from  instinctive  prejudice.  I  often  ask 
myself  whether  I  might  not  have  regarded  Blake  as  a  lit- 
erary freak  had  I  been  his  contemporary ;  let  us  assume  that 
Tinkler  has  really  a  fine  intellect  and  give  him  the  benefit 
of  every  doubt  that  arises  as  to  the  evidence  of  it  in  his  play. 
Perhaps  we  shall  find  it  to  be  the  very  best  of  all  the  Deirdre 
plays  ever  written."  He  added  pensively :  "I  wish  we  were 
going  home." 

The  house  in  Waterloo  Road  presented  a  wonderful 
aspect,  where  the  color-schemes  of  the  bride's  vorticist 
friends  were  trampled  underfoot  by  the  Victorian  furniture 
which  the  bridegroom  had  inherited  from  the  founder  of  his 
family.  But  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all  was,  at  all 
events  to  Adam,  that  Mr.  O'Toole  opened  the  door.  "How 
delightful  to  meet  you,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "an  old  friend 
of  Leaper-Carahar's,  no  doubt?" 

Mr.  Byron  O'Toole  bowed,  and  answered  modestly :  "He 
wouldn't  call  me  that.  ...  I  know  him  better  than  he  knows 
me."  Without  inelegance,  he  dropped  his  mouth  towards 
Mr.  Macarthy's  ear :  "Maybe  I'd  have  the  cinch  on  him  if  it 
came  to  a  spar.  .  .  .  Sure,  Leaper-Carahar  was  no  one  until 
he  kissed  that  fellow  Byrne's  you  know  what — I'd  be 
ashamed  to  get  on  the  way  that  fellow's  got  on — and  he 
hasn't  an  idea  in  his  head  about  how  things  are  done  in 
society.  ...  So  a  mutual  friend  at  the  Castle  asked  me  to 
come  along  and  lend  him  a  bit  of  a  hand  as  a  major-domo, 
you  might  call  it.  .  .  ."  He  went  on  apologetically :  "They're 


MRS.  LEAPER-CARAHAR'S  AT  HOME        319 

not  the  sort  of  people  I'm  used  to,  nor  any  use  for  Adam 
there  to  meet.  .  .  .  Bohemian,  I'd  call  some  of  them.  But, 
of  course,  the  nobility  and  gentry  are  gone  to  this  bloody 
war  ...  a  public  nuisance,  this  war  .  .  ."  he  broke  off  to 
address  himself  bruskly  to  Mr.  Marcus  Pirn:  "Pass  along 
there,  will  you?  Pass  along."  And  then  resumed  his 
deferentially  hospitable  manner:  "What  I  wanted  to  tell 
you,  Mr.  Macarthy,  was  that  you  mustn't  touch  the  cham- 
pagne cup.  .  .  .  It's  worse  than  the  viceregal.  ...  If  you've 
a  mind  to  the  real  stuff,  just  wink  at  me  and  I'll  make  you 
as  drunk  as  a  lord.  .  .  .  But  I  won't  give  any  to  the  lad 
there,  for  drink's  a  curse,  as  his  namesake  found  it." 

"When  the  Romans  called  a  thing  a  curse  they  also  called 
it  a  blessing,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy. 

"Sure,  well  I  know,"  Mr.  O'Toole  assured  him:  "Wasn't 
I  a  Roman  myself  until  I  learnt  the  truth  in  John  Bull  .  .  ." 
He  added  in  a  tone  of  now  suave  command :  "Pass  on  now, 
pass  on,  will  you?  .  .  .  Even  at  the  Castle  I  never  allowed 
the  Chief  Secretary  himself  to  block  the  stairs  to  the 
boofay." 

Passing  along  as  directed,  Adam  heard  his  godfather  in 
his  ear:  "Whisper,  now.  .  .  .  It's  well  you're  looking.  .  .  . 
Mind  you  do  nothing  to  disgrace  me." 

Immediately  afterwards,  Mr.  Macarthy  commented: 
"How  much  more  dignified  is  Mr.  O'Toole  than  Mr.  Leaper- 
Carahar !"  and  went  on,  as  though  talking  to  himself :  "Am 
I  snob  enough  to  admit  that  blood  tells  ?" 

Adam  thought  only  that  Leaper-Carahar  cut  a  monstrous 
figure  beside  his  blooming  bride,  and  he  stared  at  her  until 
she  frowned  and  blushed  and  frowned  again,  and  at  last  put 
her  arm  around  as  much  of  him  as  she  could  compass. 
Adam's  sense  of  the  ludicrous  got  the  better  of  his  jealousy, 
and  he  smiled,  which  seemed  to  please  the  lady  no  more. 

After  his  encounter  with  his  godfather,  Adam  was  past 
surprise,  and  found  it  almost  a  commonplace  of  life  in  Mr. 


320  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Leaper-Carahar's  society  to  meet  Mrs.  Burns  addressing  Old 
Comet,  attired  in  khaki,  as  Colonel  Newton.  He  could  not 
resist  saying  to  Barbara:  "I  seem  to  know  your  mother's 
friend." 

Barbara  blushed:  "Do  you  think  anyone  suspects?" 

Adam  answered:  "I  don't  suppose  your  mother  does,  but 
what  about  your  father?" 

Barbara  compressed  her  lips.  "Daddy  isn't  here,"  she 
said,  and  blurted  out  the  information :  "He  can't  stand  my 
husband." 

"No  more  can  I,"  said  Adam,  as  plainly  as  might  be 
without  speaking  the  words.  But  Mrs.  Carahar,  ignoring 
the  point,  asked  where  Mr.  Macarthy  was.  "He  wouldn't 
be  here,"  Adam  answered,  "only  I  asked  him  to  bring  me." 

"You  needn't  be  rude  .  .  ."  Barbara  was  beginning, 
when  there  was  a  hubbub  of  interest,  and  the  Marchesa  en- 
tered, followed  by  another  officer  in  khaki,  who  exchanged 
glances  with  Old  Comet,  and  Adam  noticed  that  one  or 
the  other  of  them  kept  station  within  three  feet  of  her. 

The  Marchesa  was  in  an  excited  mood.  She  ran  at  Adam 
and  hugged  him.  "My  beautiful  boy,"  she  sang  rather  than 
said :  "It  is  tragical  to  meet  you  here  amidst  this  rabble  of 
would-be  English  people.  .  .  .  But  we  shall  not  have  to 
bear  this  for  much  longer  now.  .  .  .  What  are  you  looking 
at?"  Adam  was  looking  at  the  second  officer  in  khaki  pen- 
ciling a  note  on  the  shirtcuff  which,  contrary  to  Regula- 
tions, he  wore.  He  tried  to  move  the  Marchesa  out  of 
range  of  the  man's  hearing.  But  the  Marchesa,  glancing  at 
the  officer  in  khaki,  said  to  Adam  in  a  loud  voice:  "Don't 
mind  him,  dear;  he's  only  a  policeman." 

The  officer  bowed  apologetically,  saying  in  a  respectful 
undertone:  "Sure,  I  have  to  do  it,  your  ladyship." 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  the  Marchesa.  She  regarded 
him  with  interest :  "I  think  I  blacked  your  eye  once.  I  hope 
it  did  not  hurt?" 


MRS.  LEAPER-CARAHAR'S  AT  HOME         321 

The  officer  smiled  deferentially.  "Ah,  not  at  all,  your 
ladyship,  not  at  all,"  said  he.  "Sure,  that  was  only  a 
suffrage  scrap.  You  were  welcome — there  was  nothing  in 
that — but  I  ought  to  warn  you  that  the  Chief  says  that  these 
Infant  Druids  of  yours  are  a  bit  obstreperous,  ducking  re- 
cruiting officers  and  that ;  it's  not  for  me  to  say  anything  I 
shouldn't,  but  things  are  getting  serious  now." 

The  Marchesa  drew  herself  up  with  dignity.  "I  have 
always  been  serious,"  she  said,  and,  hearing  Mrs.  Burns, 
who  appeared  to  be  collaborating  with  Mr.  O'Toole  in  the 
arrangements  for  the  entertainment,  announce  that  Mr. 
Tinkler  would  now  read  his  play,  she  turned  from  him  and 
deliberately  led  Adam  to  sit  down  in  the  front  row  of  the 
audience  gathering  for  this  purpose.  She  chose  a  seat  next 
the  local  and  temporary  Colonel  Newton,  who  appeared  to 
Adam  a  trifle  scared  by  her  immediate  proximity.  He  was 
not  aware  that  the  Marchesa  was  credited  by  the  Intelli- 
gence Department  with  carrying  an  automatic  pistol  in  that 
part  of  her  costume  where  Lady  Bland  carried  her  figure. 

Adam  glanced  around  him.  The  audience  seemed  com- 
posed to  a  great  extent  of  members  of  the  Six  Muses  Club. 
Despite  Mr.  O'Toole's  effort  to  suppress  him,  Mr.  Marcus 
Pirn  was  much  in  evidence,  and  the  tallest  officer  in  khaki 
was  overhung  by  the  shadow  of  Miss  Calvinia  Macfie.  In 
the  same  row  with  Adam,  but  on  the  other  flank,  Mr. 
Leaper-Carahar  hovered  broodily.  There  was  khaki  beside 
and  behind  him:  he  looked  to  Adam  considerably  older 
since  his  marriage,  but  he  was  not  any  thinner.  Adam  was 
conscious  of  his  guardian  sitting  behind  him  and  muttering 
from  time  to  time.  In  front  of  the  audience  was  a  table 
with  a  reading  desk,  where  Mr.  Tinkler  fumbled  his  manu- 
script. He  appeared  to  be  trying  to  strike  an  attitude  and 
failing  in  the  attempt.  Behind  him  sat  Mrs.  Burns,  obviously 
in  the  chair,  and  beside  her  an  elderly  gentleman  with  an 
ear-trumpet,  which  he  seldom  attempted  to  use,  seeming 


322  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

content  to  find  himself  in  the  place  of  honor  beside  that 
brilliant  lady  without  troubling  about  the  proceedings. 

At  a  signal  given  by  Mr.  O'Toole,  Mrs.  Burns  rose  to 
announce  that  Mr.  Tinkler  would  read  his  play.  There 
was  a  flutter  of  excitement  as  she  said,  emphatically,  that  it 
was  called  "Kathleen-ni-Houlihan,"  and,  the  author  being 
understood  to  protest  that  it  was  called  "Deirdre,"  she  re- 
joined archly,  if  esoterically :  "But  we  know  what  we  know, 
don't  we?" 

"Some  people  don't  know  what  they  don't  know,"  Adam 
heard  his  guardian  mutter. 

Having  playfully  slapped  Mr.  Tinkler,  Mrs.  Burns  con- 
tinued: "I'm  sure  I  had  no  idea  until  I  came  here  that  I 
should  have  the  privilege  of  taking  the  chair  for  Mr.  Tinkler. 
We  all  hoped  that  the  chair  would  be  taken  by  His  Excel- 
lency the  Lord  Lieutenant,  whom  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  had 
himself  invited  to  do  Mr.  Tinkler  honor.  ...  I  am  sure  it 
would  have  been  a  mutual  honor  .  .  ."  she  waited  for  ap- 
plause, some  of  which  came.  "Unfortunately,  His  Excel- 
lency was  unable  to  come,  so  I  then  asked  the  Chief  Secre- 
tary, who,  as  you  know,  is  also  a  literary  man,  but  he,  too, 
was  engaged." 

"Not  in  Ireland,"  said  Mr.  Marcus  Pirn,  at  which  there 
was  laughter. 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  Jim  Connolly?"  the  Marchesa  de- 
manded. 

"I  did  ask  Mr.  Connolly,"  Mrs.  Burns  brilliantly  retorted, 
"and  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  too,  but  so  far  neither  has 
arrived,  and  as  it's  getting  late  I'll  venture  to  take  their 
place,  but  only  until  they  come."  She  smiled  brilliantly :  "I 
hope  that  you'll  be  rid  of  me  long  before  Mr.  Tinkler  has 
finished  his  reading." 

Mr.  Tinkler  was  understood  to  say:  "Not  at  all,"  and 
there  was  mild  applause  as  he  rose. 

Mr.  Tinkler  rose,  but  Mrs.  Burns  did  not  sit  down ;  she 


MRS.  LEAPER-CARAHAR'S  AT  HOME        323 

continued:  "I  mustn't  tell  you  what  Mr.  Tinkler's  play  is 
about ;  some  of  you  who  acted  in  it  will  know  already,  and 
I  dare  say  there  are  others  among  you  who  may  have  seen 
it  at  the  Abbey  Theater,  that  very  delightful  performance 
in  that  dear  little  theater  which,  I  am  sure,  is  the — the  .  .  ." 
she  broke  off,  "I  forget  what  Mr.  Yeats  called  it.  But  we 
all  know  the  Abbey  Theater,  and  how  wonderfully  it  has 
changed  the  life  of  Dublin  since  the  days  which  my  friend 
here,  Colonel  Newton,  remembers,  when  it  was  a  mauso- 
leum." 

"Morgue,"  said  Colonel  Newton,  and  this  correction  was 
repeated  by  others. 

"Was  it  a  morgue?"  said  Mrs.  Burns;  "I  didn't  know: 
that  makes  it  almost  more  interesting,  like  Paris.  But 
there,  I  mustn't  keep  Mr.  Tinkler  waiting  any  longer ;  all  I 
can  say  is  that  I  saw  'Deirdre'  at  the  Abbey  Theater" — she 
hesitated,  and  appealed  to  Mr.  Tinkler :  "It  was  'Deirdre'  I 
saw,  wasn't  it  ?"  and,  without  waiting  for  his  reply,  finished 
brilliantly:  "After  all,  what  does  it  matter?  The  great 
thing  is  to  hear  Mr.  Tinkler  read  his  play,  and,  whether  we 
like  it  or  not,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible,  to  discuss  it 
afterwards ;  for,  after  all,  the  great  thing  about  reading  is 
not  so  much  the  reading  itself  as  the  conversation  that  arises 
from  it  afterwards.  I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Tinkler's  delightful 
poem,  yes,  I  mean  poem :  it  is  a  poem,  though  an  unusually 
long  one,  will  give  us  much  food  for  conversation.  I  know, 
for  instance,  that  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica,  who 
took  a  leading  part  in  it,  will  have  much  to  say  which  will 
be  helpful  to  all  of  us."  At  this  there  was  a  burst  of  ironical 
applause,  through  which  Adam  could  just  hear  Mrs.  Burns 
saying:  "I  will  now  again  call  upon  Mr.  Tinkler,"  and  sat 
down,  clapping  her  hands,  as  if  summoning  Mr.  Tinkler  in 
the  manner  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY 

WHEN  he  had  got  used  to  the  author's  method  of  delivery, 
which  made  it  difficult  to  guess  which  of  the  characters  was 
supposed  to  be  speaking,  Adam  liked  Mr.  Tinkler's 
"Deirdre  of  the  Nine  Hostages"  pretty  well.  The  opening 
of  the  play  was  moderately  clear.  King  Conchobar  had  an 
interview  with  his  wife  in  these  terms: 

Conchobar:  Remember,  Deirdre,  you  are  the  High  King's 
wife,  and  I  am  he. 

Deirdre:  How  could  I  forget?  Do  you  not  know  that  I 
have  given  nine  hostages  to  you  and  Fate? 

Conchobar:  Who  is  Fate?  Is  he  some  strolling  player 
that  frets  an  hour  in  the  booths  at  the  hurley  matches  ? 

Deirdre:  Conchobar,  you  jest  with  me.  You  love  great 
laughter. 

Conchobar:  I  am  all  for  greatness  and  broad  jest. 
Subtlety  is  not  for  me.  I  have  forgot  how  many  hostages 
you  gave  me.  Who  am  I  to  waste  my  time  counting  an 
endless  flock?  Write  down  their  names  in  a  fine  hand  in 
the  Holy  Book,  and  I  will,  some  great  day,  perhaps,  to 
come,  commit  the  lot  to  memory.  Yours  and  mine. 

Deirdre :  They  are  all  yours,  Conchobar. 

Conchobar:  I  thought  you  were  a  widow  when  we 
married  ? 

eirdre:  I  have  counted  only  your  children. 

Conchobar:  And  they  are  nine.  I  had  reckoned  between 
seven  and  eight.  But  it  becomes  not  a  king  to  doubt  his 
own  greatness.  Let  them  be  seven  score.  What  care  I,  if 

324 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY  325 

I  am  not  disturbed  at  my  writing?  I  will  remember  that 
you  have  said  that  they  were  nine.  Let  you  remember  to 
see,  in  times  to  come,  that  they  are  neither  more  nor  less. 
For,  if  doubts  creep  in,  I  can  be  great  even  in  doubt.  Let 
you  not  forget  this,  Deirdre,  and,  above  all,  let  you  re- 
member .  .  . 

Deirdre :  What  ? 

Conchobar:  Let  you  remember  not  to  forget  yourself 
with  .  .  . 

Deirdre :  Whom  ? 

Conchobar:  Never  let  his  name  be  spoken  within  the 
grove  of  the  sacred  tree  of  Clonmacnoise. 

Naisi:  (His  face  appearing  through  the  branches  of  the 
sacred  tree)  He  means  me.  I  am  Naisi,  the  lover  of  his 
Queen.  I  would  die  for  her  a  thousand  times.  I  have  not 
yet,  but  the  hour  of  my  passion  is  at  hand.  Conchobar  is 
going  out  and  I  am  coming  in.  But  the  end  of  love  is  rarely 
satisfaction.  And  all  is  already  over  before  it  has  begun. 
And  I  am  not  sorry  that  it  is  so.  To  love  Deirdre  is  to 
long  for  death.  Still,  I  must  not  let  him  see  me  yet.  Else 
he  should  think  I  came  in  homage  to  the  High  King  and  not 
to  ...  I  must  be  a  dissembler  and  hide  my  head.  (Con- 
ceals himself  in  tree.) 

Deirdre :  Why  do  you  leave  me,  Conchobar  ? 

Conchobar:  Great  kings  have  greater  kings  to  rule  them. 
They  greater  still.  And  so  on  into  infinity. 

Deirdre :  You  will  be  writing  in  the  castle  all  the  day  ? 
Writing,  perhaps,  late  into  the  night  ? 

Conchobar:  Question  me  not  too  closely.  These  times  is 
there  warring  upon  us.  I  can  see  one  that  should  be  carry- 
ing a  hackbut  'midst  the  gallowglasses,  could  I  clap  hands 
on  him. 

Deirdre :  (As  if  thinking  of  looking  round)  Where  is 
he  .  .  .  ?  Who,  O  King? 

Conchobar:  It  is  Naisi,  the  nameless  one. 


326  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Deirdre:  (Inaudibly)  Naisi! 

Conchobar:  He  is  hiding  in  the  sacred  tree  (Distractedly) 
Would  I  had  my  ebon  catapult  with  but  an  elastic  and  a 
stone,  and  I  would  mend  his  manners. 

Deirdre:  (As  before)  Thy  catapult  will  sever  my  heart- 
strings if  it  pierce  but  a  hair  on  Naisi's  head. 

Conchobar:  (Even  more  distractedly,  tearing  two  volumes 
of  the  archives  from  an  ancient  chest)  Ask  him  how  many 
•river  horses  drink  the  Nile.  He  is  an  idler.  Even  a  hurley 
stick  breeds  terror  in  his  soul.  I  am  a  king.  .  .  .  (Fum- 
bling in  chest  and  throwing  papers  about  in  his  madness) 
Where  is  my  pen?  Will  my  archives  never  be  full  ?  (Flings 
doivn  the  lid  of  the  chest  and  exit  stormily.) 

Having  got  rid  of  Conchobar,  Mr.  Tinkler  paused,  and 
sipped  a  glass  of  water.  "That  is  the  end  of  the  first  scene." 
he  said,  "and  before  I  go  on  I  think  that,  as  there  may  pos- 
sibly be  someone  here  among  you  who  has  not  seen  the  play 
as  it  was  performed  at  the  Abbey  Theater,  that  there  are 
things  they  must  visualize  for  themselves  as  I  read.  For 
instance,  King  Conchobar  always  carried  two  volumes  of 
the  archives  about  with  him." 

"How  does  he  carry  them?"  asked  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar 
portentously. 

"He  carries  one  in  each  hand,"  the  poet  explained,  ob- 
viously grateful  for  his  host's  interest. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  and  promisingly 
cleared  his  throat.  "I  take  it  the  volumes  would  be  of  mod- 
erate size?" 

"They  must  not  be  too  small,"  the  poet  said  deprecatingly. 
"At  the  Abbey  they  were  not  quite  what  I  would  have 
wished." 

Mr.  Marcus  Pim  rose  in  his  place  to  say :  "As  a  matter 
of  interest,  I  noticed  at  the  time  that  one  was  the  Douay 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY  327 

Bible  and  the  other  Thorn's  Directory,"  and  sat  down  again 
amidst  laughter  led  by  himself. 

"I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  what  happened  at  the  Abbey 
Theater,"  Mr.  Tinkler  declared,  "and  even  more  of  what 
was  written  about  it  in  the  papers." 

"Hear,  hear,"  broke  in  Mr.  Macarthy  resoundingly. 

Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  spoke  again,  this  time  consulting  his 
notebook:  "Why  does  His  Majesty  carry  two  volumes  of 
the  archives  about  with  him?" 

"To  show  that  he  is  a  man  of  action,"  said  the  poet 
readily.  "That  is  pure  symbolism;  taken  as  a  whole,  my 
'Deirdre  of  the  Nine  Hostages'  is  a  static,  rather  than  a 
kinetic,  play." 

"One  moment,"  said  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  stepping  for- 
ward to  wave  a  fountain  pen  under  the  poet's  nose :  "How 
do  you  spell  the  last  word  ?" 

"PLAY,"  Mr.  Tinkler  informed  him  with  a  baffled 
air. 

Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  frowned  and  shook  his  head.  "No, 
no  ...  The  word  before  that." 

Mr.  Tinkler  consulted  his  manuscript  for  the  necessary 
information.  (Which,  Adam  noticed,  was  conveyed  not 
only  to  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar's  book,  but  the  shirt  cuff  of  the 
policeman,  who  appeared  to  think  there  was  something  in 
it) — And,  after  an  awkward  pause,  went  on:  "Conchobar 
carries  his  archives  to  show  that  he  is  a  man  of  action. 
Naisi  and  Deirdre  just  exchange  beautiful  speeches  and  do 
nothing." 

"How  I  look  forward  to  the  first  of  the  beautiful 
speeches,"  cried  Mrs.  Burns  ecstatically. 

"We  are  coming  to  them  in  a  moment,"  said  the  poet. 

Mr.  Carahar  cleared  his  throat  again.  "Am  I  right  in 
supposing  that  you  did  not  intend  the  opening  remarks  of 
their  Majesties  to  be  anything  in  particular?" 


328  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Mr.  Tinkler  shuffled  on  his  feet.  "I  hoped  ...  I  must 
not  say  more  than  that  I  hoped,  these  lines  had  a  charm  of 
their  own,  considered  as  pure  protasis  .  .  ." 

"Pray  be  so  good  as  to  spell  that,"  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar 
broke  in,  and  swept  round  to  his  company  to  explain :  "In 
my  position  you  cannot  be  too  exact." 

When  this  question  had  been  answered,  an  old  lady  asked 
another :  "Would  the  gentleman  who  is  addressing  the  meet- 
ing be  so  kind  as  to  mention,  if  he  has  not  already  done  so, 
why  one  of  the  gentlemen  does  something,  but  the  lady  is 
never  allowed  to  do  anything?" 

"In  my  play,"  Mr.  Tinkler  declared,  ''nobody  does  any- 
thing worth  talking  about." 

"Why  do  they  talk  about  it?"  asked  Mr.  Marcus  Pirn, 
who  seemed  to  find  some  backers. 

But  Mr.  Tinkler  was  not  so  unwise  as  to  answer  that 
question.  "My  play,"  he  insisted,  "my  play  is  static.  Prac- 
tically nothing  happens.  In  kinetic  plays,  such  as  Synge's 
very  successful,  in  the  popular  sense,  play,  'The  Playboy 
of  the  Western  World,'  and  that  other  great  popular  suc- 
cess, I  believe  the  greatest  success  of  our  time,  'What 
Rot'  " 

Here  the  speaker  was  interrupted  by  a  hiss  from  Mr. 
Macarthy. 

A  sulky  look  came  over  Mr.  Tinkler's  face.  "Does  anyone 
deny  that  fortunes  have  been  made  out  of  'What  Rot'?  Far 
more  than  ever  was  made  out  of  'The  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World.' " 

Mr.  Macarthy  rose  in  his  place,  the  only  time  Adam  had 
ever  seen  him  flushed  and  angry:  "I  cannot  understand  Mr. 
Tinkler's  object  in  comparing  Synge's  play  with  'What  Rot !' 
Let  him  compare  his  own  play  with  it  if  he  likes." 

"All  the  same,"  Mr.  Tinkler  returned,  with  an  effort  at 
dignity,  "the  fact  remains  that  in  the  'Playboy'  and  in  'What 
Rot !'  things  do  happen.  In  my  'Deirdre'  nothing  happens. 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY  329 

You  will  find  that  as  the  play  goes  on  Naisi  and  Deirdre  do 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing  .  .  ." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  "just  before  you 
go  on,  I  would  like  to  point  out  that  there  is  a  question 
before  the  meeting,  put,  I  think,  by"  again  he  cleared  his 
throat  "the  Honorable  Mrs.  Smith  .  .  .  Why  does  Naisi  do 
even  less  than  Conchobar?" 

"I  did  not  hear  that  question,"  Mr.  Tinkler  declared,  "or 
I  should  have  answered  it  at  once.  .  .  .  Deirdre  and  Naisi 
do  nothing,  because  that  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  that  a 
man  and  a  woman  can  do." 

"D'ye  mean,"  called  out  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Smith,  "that 
it  would  be  a  beautiful  thing  for  the  world  to  come  to  an 
end?" 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Mr.  Tinkler,  with  what,  for  him, 
was  a  sort  of  fire,  "I  think  that  it  should  come  to  nothing. 
It  should  stand  perfectly  still  in  a  charming  attitude." 

At  this  point  there  was  a  real  burst  of  applause  from  Mrs. 
Burns  and  the  gentleman  with  the  ear-trumpet  in  his  lap 
seated  next  to  her.  Mr.  Tinkler  glowed  with  triumph  as  he 
tapped  his  manuscript  with  an  inky  finger.  "Naisi  is  a 
hero,  therefore  he  is  beautiful.  Beauty  is  an  attitude.  .  .  . 
In  other  words,  lose  his  beauty.  Even  if  he  takes  up  an 
equally  beautiful  attitude  afterwards.  .  .  .  Still,  there  is  an 
ugly  interval.  .  .  .  Let  us  take  a  humble  example  from  real 
life.  .  .  .  Though  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  art.  ...  A 
man  may  have  two  beautiful  pairs  of  trousers,  but  a  man 
changing  his  trousers,  or,  shall  we  say,  trousers  in  the  act 
of  being  changed  by  a  man,  cannot  be  beautiful  in  that  act." 

As  he  paused  to  look  round  after  this  close  argument,  he 
caught  the  eye  of  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  who  said  approv- 
ingly: "I  think  I  follow  you.  .  .  .  You  mean  that,  while 
Conchobar  may  change  his  trousers,  Naisi  and  Deirdre" — at 
this  point  Mrs.  Leaper-Carahar  was  seen  to  lay  her  hand  on 
her  husband's  coat  sleeve,  and  he  paused. 


330  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Mr.  Tinkler  was  very  pink  as  he  helped  his  host  out  of 
what  seemed  to  Adam  a  tight  place :  "If  I  were  a  prose 
writer  and  not  a  poet,  that  is  how  I  might  express  it.  Not 
to  waste  the  time  of  you  all  any  further,  I  will  now  go  on 
with  the  reading  of  my  play.  When  Conchobar  goes  off, 
Naisi  again  shows  his  face  through  the  foliage  of  the  sacred 
tree  .  .  .  This  could  not  be  done  at  the  Abbey,  as  there  was 
no  tree  .  .  .  and  says : 

Naisi:  He  says  he  is  a  king.  I  do  not  think  so.  For  great 
kings  do  nothing.  Conchobar  is  great,  but  he  is  not  a  king. 
He  is  a  clerk,  a  priestly  shaven  clerk,  a  beardless  priest  .  .  . 

Deirdre:  Did  you  not  hear  me  say  I  gave  nine  hostages, 
nine  little  cooing  bonhams,  to  him  and  Fate? 

Naisi:  To  him  and  Fate,  to  Conchobar  and  Fate.  Were 
they,  then,  two? 

Deirdre :  They  are  the  same,  for  Conchobar  was  my  fate. 
I  am  a  part  of  him  and  he  of  me.  Or  so  I  thought  before  I 
changed  my  mind,  and  will  again,  if  you  do  nothing,  always. 

Naisi:  Let  me  think. 

Deirdre:  I  am  old  and  have  no  time  for  thinking.  Let 
us  ...  Why  should  we  not? 

Naisi:  You  would  say  "Let  us  pray." 

Deirdre:  I  said  my  prayers  this  morning;  let  us  now 
talk. 

Naisi:  Yes,  let  us  talk  about  the  great  things  we  shall 
never  do. 

Deirdre:  Listen  to  me. 

Naisi:  I  am  always  listening.  It  is  not  often  I  that  does 
the  talking. 

Deirdre:  You  do  not  know  me  when  I  am  asleep. 

Naisi:  I  would  that  we  could  go  to  church,  Deirdre.  But 
you  were  twice  married  ere  that  I  was  born,  and  Brehon 
Law  . 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY  331 

Deirdre:  Sometimes  I  feel  I  am  above  the  law.  But 
when  I  say  that  to  Conchobar  he  beats  me. 

Naisi:  Saint,  what  you  suffer  from  that  man,  that  man. 

Deirdre :  You  would  not  beat  me,  Naisi,  even  if  ... 

Naisi :  I  would  never  be  doing  anything  any  time. 

Deirdre :  Not  even  now  ?  (As  if  thinking  of  approaching 
the  tree)  Stranger,  last  night  I  dreamt  that  you  were  climbed 
down  from  the  sacred  tree.  And  when  I  woke  I  almost 
wished  it  might  be  true. 

Naisi:  The  saints  forgive  my  saint.  If  this  were  true, 
then  are  we  wandering  in  a  labyrinth,  a  sort  of  maze,  hold- 
ing intricate  path  most  closely  to  its  bosom,  mocking  the 
senses,  which  seem  to  render  difficult  the  way,  and  hard 
it  is  to  find  it,  because  on  either  hand,  or  both,  the  path  is 
lost  between  the  hedges  which  offend  the  eye  by  robbing 
them  of  their  own  heaven-born  sight.  .  .  .  Deirdre,  my 
Queen,  did  he  who  made  these  hedges  make  thee  too? 

Deirdre :  Do  you  not  wot,  Naisi,  that  these  hedges  are 
the  High  King's  hedges,  whoever  made  them? 

Naisi :  Vile  topiarian !  .  .  .  Though  they  be  the  High 
King's  high  hedges,  if  they  were  not  so  high  maybe  I  could 
leap  over  them. 

Deirdre :  (Almost  as  though  about  to  move}  And  so  could 
I:  to  hop  and  skip  and  jump  was  my  delight  before  I  met 
with  you. 

Naisi:  How  long  before? 

Deirdre  :  What  does  that  matter  now  ? 

Naisi:  It  matters  nothing  to  our  love,  Deirdre.  But  I 
was  thinking  thoughts  of  awful  joy  if  we  could  jump  the 
hedges. 

Deirdre:  Of  how  awful  joy? 

Naisi :  (As  one  who  does  not  hear)  I  could,  perhaps,  cut 
one  of  them  down  a  little  if  I  had  a  knife.  They  do  not 
grow  on  trees. 


332  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Deirdre:  All  the  knives  are  gone  to  feed  the  wars  that 
Conchobar  will  make  against  the  rebels  when  he  has  done 
writing. 

Naisi:  (Mysteriously)  When  he  has  done  writing. 

Deirdre :  Misdoubt  not !  He  is  fond  of  war,  but  he  is  too 
great  a  king,  while  the  event  can  hang  in  any  doubt,  to 
go  to  it. 

Naisi:  Have  you  no  scissors,  Queen? 

Deirdre :  They,  too,  are  gone  as  food  for  powder.  They 
will  serve  for  swords  to  cleave  out  shapes  of  buckram  to 
clothe  Conchobar's  soldiers  cap-a-pie.  I  think  that  the 
armies  march  the  moment  he  stops  writing. 

Naisi :  He  will  never  stop.  He  has  the  writing  madness. 
The  archives  that  he  writes  have  nothing  in  them  and  can 
never  end. 

Deirdre :  It  is  an  open  secret  we  shall  have,  perhaps,  few 
more  children.  Then  he'll  stop. 

Naisi:  (Sadly)  Nothing  can  stop  him  unless  nullity.  And 
there  is  none  when  nothing  is  annulled. 

Deirdre :  Let  you  not  be  talking  great  words,  Naisi. 
When  all's  said,  there  is  no  maze,  but  in  that  fairy  ring, 
your  mind. 

Naisi:  I  never  thought  you  would  have  been  the  one  to 
have  said  that.  Say  on. 

Deirdre:  Below  the  bottom  of  the  sacred  lawn  there  lies 
a  river.  'Tis  a  poor  river,  Naisi :  there  is  no  horse,  nor 
whale,  nor  hippopotamus  there  to  ride. 

Naisi:  River  horses  and  hippopotami  are  one  to  me. 

Deirdre :  There  is  not  even  one  of  either,  Naisi. 

Naisi :  That  will  be  all  the  better  if  we  swim. 

Deirdre :  I  cannot  swim,  though  once  upon  a  time,  near 
Baile's  strand,  I  floated  on  my  back.  ...  I  did  it  very  well, 
but  that  was  sea.  ...  I  know  not,  in  fresh  water,  if  I 
could.  .  .  .  Fresh  running  water  that  might  run  with  me 
down  to  the  Gaelic  Undine's  secret  nook. 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY  333 

Naisi:  True,  it  might  suck  you  down,  or  bear  you  up,  or 
throw  you  back  on  shore.  We  are  but  pawns  at  chess :  bet- 
ter do  nothing.  .  .  .  The  risk  is  far  too  great.  I  could  not 
bear  that  anything  should  happen  to  you.  I'll  go  alone. 
(He  makes  the  slightest  possible  movement,  as  though  wish- 
ing to  go,  whereupon  the  sacred  tree  breaks,  and  he  falls  at 
Deirdre's  feet.) 

Deirdre :  (As  if  about  to  make  a  movement  towards  him, 
after  the  curtain  falls)  Now  I  have  got  you,  and  you  shall 
not  go. 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Tinkler,  "that  is  the  end  of  the  first  act ; 
unfortunately,  as  I  have  said,  there  was  no  tree  at  the  Abbey 
Theater,  and  so  I  had  to  speak  the  lines  of  Naisi  with  my 
head  around  one  of  the  wings,  which  made  it  difficult,  I 
understand,  for  the  pit  to  hear  me.  Also,  I  regret  to  say, 
that  the  last  of  Deirdre's  lines  was  spoken  by  her  some 
pages  before  they  come  in  the  text,  and,  consequently,  the 
curtain  fell  too  soon."  He  paused  here  while  Mr.  Pirn 
applauded.  When  this  had  subsided,  he  continued :  "In  the 
circumstances,  I  imagine  there  was  some  confusion  in  the 
mind  of  the  audience  as  to  my  precise  meaning.  I  think  I 
am  justified  in  hoping  that  I  have  to-day  made  that  mean- 
ing, by  reading  the  part  of  Deirdre  myself,  quite  clear."  He 
sat  down,  and  emptied  his  glass,  amidst  applause,  which,  so 
far  as  Adam  was  concerned,  was  genuine. 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  declared, 
in  a  note  of  challenge  to  those  who  might  be  critical :  "I  must 
say,"  and  then  consulted  his  notes,  "I  was  about  to  say  that 
I  must  say  that  there  is  a  great  deal  in  Mr.  Tinkler's  play 
which  is  quite  up  to  the  standard  of  some  London  theaters." 

"I  told  you  so,"  cried  Mrs.  Burns. 

Adam  was  surprised  to  hear  Barbara  hiss  through  bitten 
lips :  "I  wish  you  two  would  not  conspire  to  make  me 
ridiculous." 


334  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

/There  was  much  in  the  first  act  of  "Deirdre"  that  had 
pleased  Adam :  although  amused,  he  was  also  touched.  But 
.the  second  act  was  less  compelling  in  its  interest.  It  opened 
with  a  long  scene  between  the  Three  Eavesdroppers  and  the 
Three  Mutes,  in  which  the  Eavesdroppers  sought  to  obtain 
from  the  Mutes  detailed  information  as  to  the  relations  sub- 
sisting between  Naisi  and  Deirdre.  Adam  thought  that  the 
Eavesdroppers  were  unnecessarily  prolix  in  their  questions 
and  unconscionably  slow  in  suspecting  the  reason  why  they 
received  no  answer.  .  .  .  The  following  scene,  in  which  the 
Eavesdroppers,  having  heard  nothing  from  the  Mutes, 
started  to  concoct  a  story  about  the  lovers  for  themselves, 
was  slightly  more  dramatic.  And  the  next  scene,  in  which 
•they  told  what  they  had  invented  to  Conchobar,  was  promis- 
ing to  be  quite  effective  when  Adam  was  alarmed  to  hear 
himself  snore,  and  found  that  Mr.  Tinkler  was  well  on  in 
the  last  act.  He  pinched  himself  into  wake  fulness  and 
listened  steadfastly  to  the  end  of  the  tragedy.  He  picked 
up  the  threads  as  Mr.  Tinkler  was  reading,  thus : 

Naisi:  What  I  have  said  I  have  said,  and  nothing  can  be 
done. 

Deirdre:  (Almost  keening)  And  I  am  not  undone,  yet  are 
we  both  undone;  for,  see,  one  comes.  (Enter  the  First 
Mute,  with  the  appearance  of  one  running.) 

First  Mute :  The  King  has  cursed  me  with  great  oaths 
into  finding  my  voice.  He  is  coming  here  cursing.  The 
Eavesdroppers  have  done  you  great  wrong.  You  will  be 
flying  now,  the  two  of  you,  if  you  had  the  wisdom  of  little 
fleas. 

Deirdre :  There  is  no  beauty  in  fleas,  nor  wisdom. 

First  Mute :  There  is  sense  in  them,  Queen  Deirdre,  all 
the,  same.  I  have  legs,  and,  therefore,  will  run.  1  will  be 
running  to  the  Bog  of  Allan  and  hiding  my  head  in  it.  For 
there  is  great  shame  in  the  house  of  Conchobar. 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY  335 

Deirdre :  It  is  for  Conchobar  to  shame  himself,  and 
not  I. 

First  Mute:  He  is  a  great  king,  even  in  his  wrath,  and 
writes  down  his  curses  in  the  archives  as  he  lets  them.  .  .  . 
Oh  ...  Oh  ...  Woe  .  .  .  Woe!  (Exit  First  Mute,  run- 
ning imperceptibly  as  before.} 

Naisi:  If  one  of  us  were  to  go  somewhere  now,  perhaps 
it  might  be  well. 

Deirdre:  And  if  one  goes,  why  not  two? 

Naisi:  For  two  to  go  one  road,  who  but  yourself  would 
think  of  that  ? 

Deirdre :  Are  my  thoughts  still  new  to  you,  Naisi  ? 

Naisi:  As  the  Phoenician  Queen's. 

Deirdre :  I  know :  the  Queen  that  lodges  in  the  grove  of 
the  Phoenix. 

Naisi:  If  I  could  arise  now,  I  would,  maybe,  go  to  her. 

Deirdre:  Alone,  Naisi?    Is  it  alone  you  would  be  going? 

Naisi:  I  could  never  be  alone  for  long.  .  .  .  Where  is 
Conchobar  ? 

Deirdre :  If  he  is  not  coming  here  with  great  curses,  as 
the  Mute  foretold,  he  is  surely  in  the  castle  writing  down 
the  words  of  his  Eavesdroppers. 

Naisi :  There  is  great  height  in  his  lowness. 

Deirdre :  Why  do  you  say  that,  now  ? 

Naisi:  I  think  of  him  always  there,  always  writing,  filling 
the  world  with  words  that,  for  all  we  know,  may  be  fine. 

Deirdre :  No,  not  fine,  Naisi,  not  fine ;  strong,  maybe,  but 
never  once  refined. 

Naisi:  I  will  say  nothing  against  even  Conchobar,  lest  he 
hear  me. 

Deirdre :  Hush  !  will  you  listen  to  him  cursing.  (Her  eyes 
appear  to  indicate  the  direction  in  which  Conchobar  is 
coming.) 

Naisi :  His  is  the  better  part. 

Deirdre:  You  do  not  know  him  as  I  do,  Naisi,  with  his 


336  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

goblet  filled  by  the  arch-secretary's  butler,  or  throwing  dice 
on  the  green. 

Naisi :  I  have  never  diced  nor  drunk  deep :  I  have  always 
been  temperate.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  has  been  my  undoing. 

Deirdre:  You  are  not  undone  yet.  Let  us  go  together 
now,  Naisi :  you  can  see  the  shadow  of  a  ship  by  the  garden 
gate:  it  is  tied  to  the  pale.  The  crew  are  gone  and  will 
never  come  back.  You  can  row,  or  maybe  let  her  drift. 

Naisi:  Conchobar  would  sink  her  with  one  of  his  great 
curses.  It  will  be  less  trouble  to  be  killed  here. 

Deirdre :  You  do  not  believe,  as  I  do,  in  the  beyond. 

Naisi :  At  least,  there  will  be  nothing. 

Deirdre :  He  is  coming  now.  If  you  cannot  save  yourself, 
Naisi,  think  of  me. 

Naisi:  I  have  done  too  much  already.  (Enter  Conchobar 
with  archives,  one  of  which  he  lets  fall  on  Dcirdrc's  harp, 
breaking  the  third  string.  A  cannon  is  shot  off.} 

Naisi :  Why  did  you  do  that  ?    We  have  not  wronged  you. 

Deirdre:  You  might  have  waited. 

Conchobar:  I  have  waited  long  enough.  Must  a  king 
have  patience?  Are  my  Eavesdroppers  to  lie  for  nothing? 
Conchobar  was  never  harsh  to  the  poor. 

Deirdre:  Harsh  to  his  poor  wife  was  Conchobar. 

Naisi:  And  never  friendly  to  her  friends. 

Conchobar:  I  will  strike  the  golden  head  against  the 
gray:  they  are  of  one  softness.  (Kills  them,  takes  up 
archives,  and  goes  out  weeping.  Then  enter  the  Three 
Mutes,  who  place  Deirdre  and  Naisi  on  a  bier,  broken  harp 
between  them.) 

First  Mute :  Now  we  may  speak,  for  there  is  none  to  hear. 

Second  Mute :  Is  Deirdre  really  dead,  or  does  she  sagely 
imitate  the  little  red  fox? 

Third  Mute :  Hush !  Conchobar  is  greater  than  ever  in 
his  loss.  (Enter  Conchobar,  in  mourning,  and  without  the 
archives.) 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY     337 

Conchobar :  I  see  some  speculation  in  their  eyes :  they  are 
not  dead. 

Deirdre:  Naisi  will  be  remembered  for  ever.     (Dies.) 

Naisi:  And  Deirdre  too.     (Dies.) 

Conchobar:  And  what  of  me?  (With  authority)  My 
Mutes,  I  charge  you,  speak. 

First  Mute :  You  have  broken  Deirdre's  harp. 

Conchobar:  Hang  it  on  Tara's  walls. 

Second  Mute:  They  would  fall  down. 

Conchobar:  I  will  shore  them  up  to  bear  a  greater  sorrow. 

Third  Mute :  They  are  falling  now. 

Conchobar:  How  do  you  know? 

First  Mute:  There  is  not  a  brick  left  standing. 

Conchobar :  You  cannot  shake  me :  I  am  too  great. 

Second  Mute :  I  can  hear  strong  men  mewing  like  spavindy 
goats. 

Conchobar:  They  are  calling  for  me  at  Armageddon. 

Third  Mute:  They  are  fools. 

Conchobar:  You  must  not  speak  so  to  your  king. 

First  Mute :  Whether  they  are  calling  you  or  not,  you  had 
better  go. 

Conchobar:  (With  great  enlightenment  in  his  eyes)  You 
had  better  go.  That  is  the  word  I  heard  spoken  in  the  grove 
of  the  Phoenix:  set  down  naught  in  malice.  Tell  Deirdre 
and  Naisi  I  am  sorry  they  are  dead.  (Exit.) 

First  Mute:  Is  he  mad,  or  what? 

Second  Mute :  He  is  neither,  or  the  one  or  the  other,  or 
both. 

Third  Mute:  Conchobar  was  always  like  that. 

First  Mute:  Conchobar  was  the  greatest  of  all  in  his 
greatness. 

Second  Mute:  But  Deirdre  and  Naisi  had  the  conquest 
<af  him  for  beauty. 

Third  Mute:  This  play  of  Conchobar's  greatness  and 
Deirdre  and  Naisi's  beauty  will  outlast  all  time. 


338  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

Mr.  Tinkler,  taking  breath  at  this  moment,  his  audience 
gave  him  the  applause  due  to  a  poet  who  had  devoted  him- 
self to  their  entertainment,  at  no  little  cost  to  his  physical 
comfort;  for  he  was  as  winded  as  an  ill-trained  hunter  after 
a  steeplechase.  But  he  motioned  them  to  withdraw  not  from 
him  their  full  attention,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  man  coming 
at  last  to  his  point,  went  on  reading: 

(Enter  the  Three  Eavesdroppers,  with  three  blind  musi- 
cians who  play  sad  music  on  sackbuts.  The  Eavesdroppers 
sing:) 

We  have  seen  with  listening  eyes 

Tidings  of  a  great  surprise: 

We  have  heard  with  seeing  ears 

Wormwood  tales  of  hopes  and  fears. 

As  we  climbed  the  castle  stair 

To  my  lady's  chamber,  where 

We  beheld  a  red-haired  man, 

Who  said  Kathleen-ni-Houlihan 

And  fair  Deirdre  were  the  same, 

Changed  in  nothing  but  in  name. 

Now  to  Conchobar  we  go, 

And  we  will  surprise  him  so 

That  the  pang  of  the  surprise 

Will  tumble  tears  down  from  his  eyes. 

Great  will  be  the  great  king's  pain 

When  he  knows  whom  he  hath  slain, 

And  cannot  call  alive  again. 

(Exeunt  the  Three  Eavesdroppers,  followed  bv  three  blind 
musicians,  still  playing  their  sackbuts  sadly.  A  green  light 
is  thrown  on  Deirdre,  and,  if  possible,  an  amber  on  Naisi. 
The  back  of  the  stage  should  be  rather  dark  from  now  to 
the  end  of  the  play.) 

First  Mute :  Who  would  believe  what  the  Eavesdroppers 
would  be  saying,  and  they  going  everywhere  telling  lies? 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY  339 

Second  Mute :  There  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  There 
is  no  truth  in  anything  at  all. 

Third  Mute :  There  is  no  truth,  now,  that  Deirdre  and 
Naisi  are  dead,  but  that  the  people  will  be  playing  this  story 
of  their  deaths  and  their  beauty  and  their  love  and  of  what 
never  happened  at  all  until  the  world  will  be  standing  still 
to  listen  to  it. 

Deirdre:  That  is  a  true  thing.  But  the  Eavesdroppers, 
too,  knew  a  true  thing.  Though  they  did  not  know  that  it 
was  a  true  thing,  but  only  a  thing,  true  or  not.  Let  me  be 
rising  now  and  I  will  tell  you  the  truth  of  it  all. 

First  Mute :  The  truth  of  it  all. 

Second  Mute :  She's  going  to  tell  us  the  truth  of  it  all. 

Third  Mute :  Deirdre  is  going  to  tell  us  the  great  truth 
of  all  the  great  truths:  the  truth  about  the  things  that  no 
one  tells  about. 

Deirdre :  Listen  to  me,  now,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  truth. 
The  red-haired  man  .  .  . 

First  Mute :  Is  he  mad,  or  what  ? 

Second  Mute :  He  is  neither,  or  the  one  or  the  other,  or 
both. 

Third  Mute :  Conchobar  was  always  like  that. 

First  Mute:  Conchobar  was  the  greatest  or  all  in  his 
greatness. 

Second  Mute:  But  Deirdre  and  Naisi  had  the  conquest 
of  him  for  beauty. 

Third  Mute:   This  play  of   Conchobar's  greatness   and 
Deirdre  and  Naisi's  beauty  will  outlast  all  time. 
(Enter  the  Three  Eavesdroppers  .  .  .) 

Here  Mr.  Tinkler  abruptly  checked  his  reading,  fumbled 
wildly  with  the  papers  in  his  hand  and  on  the  table  before 
him,  and  in  his  pockets,  and  even  within  his  shirt.  "This 
is  dreadful,"  he  stuttered.  "I  have  lost  the  last  seven  pages 
of  my  manuscript.  .  .  .  That  is  to  say,  I  must  have  left 


340   _  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

them  at  home  and  brought  carbon  copies  of  the  part  I've 
already  read  instead." 

"Better  have  carbonized  the  lot,"  growled  Mr.  Macarthy. 

But  Mrs.  Burns  said :  "Do  you  read  what  you  have  there 
over  again :  it  is  all  so  beautiful.  What  does  it  matter  where 
it  begins  or  ends?" 

"Go  on,  man!"  shouted  Mr.  Marcus  Pirn,  without 
troubling  to  rise.  "Sure,  what  does  it  matter?" 

Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  impressively  took  ground.  "I  am 
afraid  I  cannot  agree  with  the  last  speaker.  If  I  am  right 
in  supporting  that  Mr.  .  .  ."  he  consulted  his  notes,  "Tink- 
ler intended  his  work  to  be  a  work  of  art,  and,  frankly,  I 
suppose  that  he  did,  and  I  am  sure  that  there  are  things  in 
it  which  are  a  credit  to  a  city  like  Dublin,  cut  off  as  it  is 
from  the  center  of  the  artistic  world  round  Charing  Cross." 
Again  he  consulted  his  notes.  "I  was  about  to  say  that 
Aristotle,  or  it  may  have  been  Ruskin,  says  that  a  work  of 
art  must  have  a  beginning  and  a  middle  and  an  end.  This 
is  almost  a  truism,  for,  clearly,  there  is  nothing  else  to  dis- 
tinguish a  work  of  art  from  any  other  work.  I  have  no 
wish  to  take  up  time  which  was  meant  for  rejoicing,  if  I 
may  say  so,  on  Mrs.  Leaper-Carahar's  first  public  appear- 
ance as  my  bride,  if  I  may  call  her  so,  by  further  reference 
to  Mr.  ...  to  his  play.  But  I  would  like  to  ask  the  author 
if  he  has  no  notes  of  any  kind,  or  could  tell  us  anything 
from  his  recollection,  which  would  help  us  to  form  an 
opinion  as  to  what  ultimately  happened.  ...  If  Deirdre 
was  really  alive,  as  seems  to  be  indicated,  did  Conchobar 
kill  her  again,  or  divorce  her,  or  take  her  back?  For  there 
does  not  seem  to  have  been  any  real  connection  between  her 
and  the  gentleman  whose  name  I  did  not  catch.  .  .  .  And, 
if  so,  why?" 

Adam  was  conscious  of  a  general  feeling  throughout  the 
assembly  that  their  host's  question  went  pretty  near  the  root 
of  the  matter.  And  Mr.  Tinkler  was  not  as  frightened 


MR.  TINKLER  READS  HIS  PLAY  341 

by  it  as  Adam  thought  he  might  have  been  in  the  like 
case. 

"It  is  implicit,  in  my  view  of  beauty,  that  nothing  should 
happen  to  my  leading  character,"  the  poet  explained. 
"Deirdre  merely  says  that  what  the  Eavesdropper  says  about 
what  the  red-haired  man  said  is  not,  as  the  Mute  said,  more 
or  less  untrue.  She  says  she  really  is  Kathleen-ni-Houlihan. 
Apart  from  any  little  merit  my  play  may  have  as  pure  litera- 
ture, I  claim  that  the  idea  of  making  Deirdre  the  same 
person  as  Kathleen-ni-Houlihan  is  a  really  important  addi- 
tion to  the  folk-lore  of  ancient  Ireland.  Also,  I  need  not 
point  out  that  it  is  in  the  best  sense  dramatic ;  for  it  comes 
in  the  nature  of  a  surprise  to  those  who  are  accustomed  to 
the  conventions  of  Yeats  and  Synge  and  Russell  and 
Trench  and  Canon  Smithson,  though  the  last  mentioned 
author  did  show  some  originality  by  imitating  Spenser  so 
far  as  to  make  Deirdre  the  same  person  as  Queen  Elizabeth." 

"Shame  to  Captain  Simpson,"  said  the  old  gentleman  with 
the  ear-trumpet  next  Mrs.  Burns,  who  added :  "Hear,  hear." 

Mr.  Tinkler  gathered  momentary  force  from  Mrs.  Burns' 
encouragement.  "I  do  not  think  that  Canon  Smithson  fol- 
lowed a  good  model  in  imitating  Spenser,  but  I  think  that 
he  was  on  the  right  line  before  he  went  off  it.  It  was  in 
the  true  spirit  of  romantic  poetry  that  he  made  Deirdre 
something  that  she  was  not.  My  idea  was  to  make  her  the 
same  as  Kathleen-ni-Houlihan,  and  that  is  why  I  gave  her 
gray  hair.  To  the  bourgeois  mind,  such  as  that  of  Concho- 
bar,  would  be  in  real  life,  say,  a  Castle  official  .  .  ." 

"A  .  .  .  what  ?"  cried  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  bouncing  up, 
while  the  policeman  in  khaki  made  feverish  notes. 

"I  do  not  mean  a  Castle  official  of  the  type  that  is  inter- 
ested in  the  fine  arts,  such  as  our  host,"  Mr.  Tinkler  trem- 
blingly explained.  "I  mean  quite  a  different  type,  one  that 
is  now  probably  disappearing,  the,  in  fact,  bourgeois  type. 
,To  his  mind,  Deirdre  would  have  appeared  an  ordinary  old 


342  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

woman  .  .  .  though,  I  must  say,  more  tidy  in  her  appear- 
ance than  some  old  women  who  ought  to  know  better." 

"Hear,  hear,"  said  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar,  glancing  mean- 
ingly towards  the  Marchesa :  "Hear,  hear,"  and  once  again 
"Hear,  hear."  Two  officers  in  khaki  echoed  this,  conceiving 
it  to  be  their  duty,  and  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  sat  down,  con- 
tent to  be  acknowledged  as  a  patron  of  the  fine  arts. 

And  so  Mr.  Tinkler  concluded:  "To  her  bourgeois  hus- 
band, Conchobar,  with  his  wrong  sort  of  official  mind, 
Deirdre  appears  as  an  old  woman.  Not  so  to  the  poet, 
Naisi,  who  loved  her,  who  is  ready  to  die  for  her,  and,  in 
fact,  does  die  for  her  ...  to  him  she  appears,  even  in 
death,  to  be  a  beautiful  young  girl." 

He  expressed  this  sentiment  so  very  touchingly  that  Adam 
felt  there  really  was  something  in  it:  though  he  could  not 
say  what. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
VIEWS  DIFFER  AND  FOG  RISES 

As  Mr.  Tinkler's  voice  died  away  in  a  tremulo,  the  last 
accents  drowned  in  his  glass  of  water  and  a  murmur  of 
applause  in  which  the  dominant  note  related  less  to  the 
passion  of  Deidre  than  the  pleasantness  of  tea,  Mrs.  Burns 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  essayed  to  check  the  stampeding 
guests.  Against  the  dissonance  of  their  chatter  and  the 
mellow  note  of  Mr.  O'Toole  chanting:  "Pass  along  there, 
pass  along  there !  Downstairs  to  the  boofay !"  she  pitched 
her  appeal:  "Do  let  us  have  a  little  discussion  about  the 
play.  .  .  .  Let  us  tell  each  other  and  the  great  author  what 
we  think  it  means.  .  .  .  And  then  perhaps  he  in  his  turn 
will  be  so  good  as  to  tell  us  what  he  thinks  it  means  if  he 
isn't  too  tired." 

"I  am  rather  exhausted,"  murmured  Mr.  Tinkler,  mop- 
ping his  brovr,  "and  I  think  I  have  explained  as  much  as 
was  necessary.  ...  I  never  was  very  good  at  explaining, 
I  find  it  wearisome." 

"Well,  then,"  Mrs.  Burns  insisted,  "if  you're  too  tired 
I'll  ask  Mr.  Macarthy  to  explain  the  meaning  of  the  play." 

"What  is  there  to  explain?"  Mr.  Macarthy  rose  from  his 
seat  to  ask.  "I  am  under  the  impression  that  the  thesis  of 
Mr.  Tinkler's  play  lies  in  a  man,  called  Conchobar,  thinking 
another  man,  called  Naisi,  to  be  on  more  familiar  terms 
with  his  wife,  called  Deirdre,  than  suits  his  convenience. 
So  he  makes  an  end  of  one,  if  not  both  of  them,  in  a  way  I 
did  not  quite  understand,  and  then  seeks  a  change  of  occu- 
pation in  a  more  business-like  manner  than  one  might 
expect  from  his  conversation."  He  sat  down  again. 

343 


344  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

But  Mrs.  Burns  urged  him  once  more  to  rise.  "Do  go 
on  with  your  exposition  of  the  play,"  she  cried,  "I  never 
dreamt  of  Conchobar  being  at  all  a  business  man.  I  thought 
him  just  kingly,  I  might  almost  say  majestic  if  the  word 
were  not  so  hackneyed.  .  .  .  We're  all  learning  something. 
No  one  more  than  Mr.  Tinkler  himself,  I'm  sure.  .  .  .  Any- 
how, do  go  on  talking  about  something  that  somebody  else 
can  say  something  about  when  you  stop.  It  doesn't  really 
matter  what  you  discuss  so  long  as  you  discuss  it.  ...  I 
mean,  of  course,  in  a  manner  that  leads  to  further  discus- 
sion. Say  anything  that  comes  into  your  head,  and  when 
everybody  else  who  would  like  to  speak  has  said  all  they 
can  about  what  you  or  anybody  else  says,  I'll  ask  Mr.  Tinkler 
to  reply.  .  .  .  Did  I  or  did  I  not  forget  by  the  way  to  say 
how  much  we  all  enjoyed  his  reading  of  the  play?" 

Mr.  Pim  said  in  a  tone  that  was  not  entirely  serious :  "I 
really  forget  whether  you  forgot  to  say  it  or  not." 

"Well,  anyhow,"  said  Mrs.  Burns,  "whether  I  said  it  or 
not,  of  course  Mr.  Tinkler  will  understand.  .  .  .  The  great 
thing  now  is  to  hear  Mr.  Macarthy  tell  us  what  he  has  got 
to  say." 

To  Adam's  surprise  Mr.  Macarthy  rose  again :  "Very  well, 
then,"  said  Mr.  Macarthy,  "if  I  must  say  something  I  beg 
humbly  to  submit  that  I  am  quite  prepared  to  accept  the 
play  Mr.  Tinkler  has  read  to  us,  as  his  masterpiece.  I  am 
prepared  to  believe  that  he  will  never  achieve  anything  bet- 
ter than  this.  And  it  is  impossible  for  a  man's  friends  not 
to  be  interested  in  what  they  believe  to  be  his  best  work. 
I  have  not  the  vanity  to  claim  to  be  one  of  Mr.  Tinkler's 
friends,  but  it  is  easy  for  me  to  understand  what  they  must 
be  feeling  at  this  moment.  So  I  need  not  enlarge  on  Mr. 
Tinkler's  merits  as  a  dramatist,  particularly  as  I  have  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  would  attach  the  smallest  weight 
to  my  opinion.  It  is  not  to  people  such  as  I  that  he  will 
look  for  an  audience.  I  confess  myself  constitutionally  in- 


VIEWS  DIFFER  AND  FOG  RISES  345 

capable  of  writing  a  play  of  this  kind,  if  only  for  the  reason 
that  it  is  many  years  since  I  have  been  able  to  affect  an 
interest  in  illicit  passion,  or  for  the  matter  of  that,  passion 
of  any  sort.  So  far  as  my  superficial  studies  allow  me  to 
form  an  opinion,  passion  is  as  Mr.  Pitt  shocked  Madame 
de  Stael  by  describing  Glory — 'all  my  eye  and  Betty  Martin' : 
or  as  I  would  say :  Conceit.  It  appears  to  me  that  the  only 
possible  excuse  for  a  man  kissing  a  woman  is  as  a  direct 
intimation  that  he  thinks  her  fit  to  bear  children  by 
him.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  exploded :  "Tut  tut,  tut  tut,  tut  tut," 
in  a  manner  that  reminded  Adam  of  Dr.  Ahern's  motor-car 
when  throttled.  A  few  among  the  audience  seemed  annoyed 
by  this  interruption:  but  not  so  Mr.  Macarthy,  who  said: 
"I  am  glad  that  our  host  agrees  with  me." 

Up  jumped  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar:  "Not  at  all,"  he  cried, 
"on  the  contrary." 

Adam  saw  a  grin  of  delight  flash  over  his  guardian's  face 
and  disappear  as  he  said  gravely:  "At  all  events  we  shall 
all  be  glad  to  have  from  our  host  an  authoritative  state- 
ment on  this  subject,  of  which  I  am  aware  that  I  know 
practically  nothing."  And  he  sat  down,  leaving  Mr.  Leaper- 
Carahar,  very  flustered,  standing  alone  and  wiping  his 
forehead. 

Adam  saw  that  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  had  been  placed  by 
Mr.  Macarthy  in  a  position  from  which  he  could  not  easily 
escape,  for  all  in  the  room  had  their  eyes  turned  on  him 
with  an  interest  which  he  had  not  so  far  aroused.  "I  was 
only  going  to  say,"  said  he,  "that  I  am  a  conservative.  .  .  . 
I  mean,  of  course,  in  the  best  sense  of  that  word.  .  .  .  Nat- 
urally, as  an  official  I  have  no  politics.  ...  I  am  liberal 
wherever  it  is  possible  to  be  liberal.  .  .  .  But,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  will  say  this,  that  so  far  as  the  relation  of  real 
ladies  and  true  gentlemen  are  concerned  .  .  .  And  I  am 
not  'thinking  of  anyone  here ih.birJn believe-  in  Romance. 


346  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

And,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  vigorously,  "I  know  for 
a  fact,  so  does  Mrs.  Leaper-Carahar." 

He  was  sitting  down  amidst  a  hum  of  approval  over 
which  Mr.  Macarthy's  voice  rang  out  challengingly  clear : 
"I  should  like  to  hear  the  lady  say  that  for  herself." 

The  eyes  of  the  audience  swept  from  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar 
to  Barbara,  but  she  only  said  angrily :  "Oh,  I  don't  believe 
in  anything."  It  sounded  to  Adam  as  if  she  really  meant  it : 
and  his  soul,  which  had  been  vaguely  stirred  by  the  play, 
fell  sick  as  his  eye  traveled  from  the  flushed  face  of  her  to 
whom  he  had  made  the  most  passionate  speech  of  his  life, 
to  the  form  of  the  egregious  man  who  possessed  her  body 
and  perhaps  also  claimed  to  possess  her  mind. 

Mrs.  Burns  rose  again.  "We  all  know  that  Mr.  Macarthy 
thinks  differently  from  everyone  else,"  she  said,  shining 
with  even  greater  brilliancy  in  that  dark  moment.  "And 
that  is  why  I  asked  him  to  speak  first.  Now,  I  will  call 
upon  someone  .  .  ."  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  rose,  but  his 
mother-in-law,  ignoring  him,  went  on:  "I  will  call  upon 
someone  who,  more  than  anyone,  made  Mr.  Tinkler's  mas- 
terpiece, as  even  Mr.  Macarthy  himself  called  it,  a  success 
before  he  altered  it,  and,  I  must  confess,  from  what  I  heard, 
it  seems  to  me,  a  little  disimproved  it.  I  won't  say  every- 
where, but  in  some  of  the  parts  I  liked,  but  a  masterpiece  it 
remains.  .  .  .  Everyone  knows  that  I  mean  the  Marchesa 
della  Venasalvatica,  so  it  is  quite  unnecessary  for  me  to 
name  her,  but  I  will,  I  mean  I  have  .  .  .  Marchesa,  will 
you  perhaps  be  so  kind,  the  Marchesa  della  Venasalvatica  ?" 

The  Marchesa  bounced  to  her  feet.  She  was  wearing 
what  appeared  to  Adam  to  be  the  cast-off  suit  of  a  game- 
keeper, with  blue  goggles,  and  her  manner  did  not  portend 
kindness.  "Either  I  am  very  deaf,  or  Mr.  ...  I  forget 
his  name,  cannot  read  his  own  typewriting.  ...  So  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  say  anything  about  the  revised  version  of  his 
masterpiece,  as  my  friend  Stephen  Macarthy  called  it  in  one 


VIEWS  DIFFER  AND  FOG  RISES  347 

of  his  fits  of  mockery,  from  which  the  Lord  deliver  all 
artists.  Not  that  I  mean  that  Mr.  What's-His-Name's  an 
artist.  Our  hostess,  I  mean,  of  course,  Mrs.  Burns,  for  I 
need  hardly  say  that  I  am  not  here  as  the  guest  of  a  Sas- 
senach official,  who  probably  has  a  warrant  for  my  arrest 
in  his  breeches  pocket,  or  wherever  he  keeps  official  docu- 
ments, at  the  present  moment.  Our  hostess  has  been  kind 
enough  to  mention  my  success  in  the  part  of  Deirdre.  If  I 
was  a  success  in  that  part,  that  was  no  thanks  to  the  author 
of  the  play.  It  was  the  spirit  of  that  greatest  of  Irish- 
women, Deirdre  herself,  that  inspired  me.  I  remember 
now  that  the  author's  name  is  Tinkler.  I  suppose,  from 
Tinkler's  name,  that  he  is  an  Englishman,  or  else  a  German. 
We  have  a  great  many  Germans  over  here  just  now.  And, 
I'm  sure,  whatever  we  think  of  them,  we  all  love  them  for 
hating  their  first  cousins,  the  English.  When  thieves  fall 
out,  you  know  what  happens,  only,  unfortunately,  it 
doesn't.  ...  I  forget  what  we  were  talking  about.  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  Deirdre.  ...  I  hope  Mr.  Tinkler,  for  his  own  sake, 
is  a  German.  But,  whatever  he  is,  I  resent  his  insolence  as 
a  foreigner  in  writing  about  an  Irish  subject:  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  Irish  subjects.  The  love  of  Deirdre  for  the 
man  who  was  not,  and  would  not  under  any  circumstances 
have  been,  her  husband.  That  is  what  I  mean  by  beauty. 
But  you  do  not  get  beauty  in  Fitzwilliam  Square.  .  .  .  Some 
of  you  besides  Mr.  Tinkler  may  understand  what  I  mean. 
I  repeat,  you  do  not  get  it  in  Fitzwilliam  Square.  You  get 
it  in  the  country.  I  was  brought  up  in  the  country,  and  I 
love  it.  Willy  Yeats  was  brought  up  in  the  country 
too  .  .  ." 

"Bedford  Park,"  said  Mr.  Marcus  Pirn. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  Marchesa.  "Bedford  Park  is  not 
the  country.  Bedford  Park  is  Hammersmith.  Many  of  us 
have  been  in  Hammersmith,  but  that  proves  nothing.  Willy 
Yeats  has  passed  his  whole  spiritual  life  in  the  country,  and 


348  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

so  has  been  able  to  write  the  most  beautiful  Deirdre  that 
ever  was  written,  and  I  think  I  have  read  nearly  a  hundred 
Deirdres  of  one  sort  or  another,  not  counting,  of  course, 
Mr.  Tinkler's.  I  really  could  not  count  Mr.  Tinkler's :  it 
is  not  a  Deirdre  play  at  all,  though  I  tried  to  make  a  Deirdre 
out  of  it,  and  I  am  glad  that  I  succeeded.  ...  I  offered  to 
play  in  Mr.  Yeats's  Deirdre  in  a  special  performance  for 
the  Infant  Druids,  but  he  told  me  the  rights  were  held  by 
some  English  actress.  It  is  only  fair  to  say  she  had  an  Irish 
name.  That  is  the  worst  of  being  a  poor  country."  Sud- 
denly her  voice  gathered  strength.  "There  was  an  Irish 
poet  once  who  might  have  written  a  better  Deirdre  than 
even  Mr.  Yeats.  But  he  was  killed  in,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
a  wrongful  cause,  the  cause,  I  need  hardly  remark,  of  Eng- 
land, against  a  people  who,  as  even  that  old  hypocrite  Glad- 
stone admitted,  were  struggling  rightly  to  be  free." 

Adam,  whose  mind  had  wandered  from  the  Marchesa's 
address  in  admiration  of  the  efforts  of  the  policeman  to 
pursue  his  report  of  it  so  far  as  his  elbow,  was  conscious  of 
a  commotion.  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  was  on  his  feet,  crying : 
"This  is  my  house,  and  I  protest  against  the  introduction  of 
politics.  The  Soudanese  were  entirely  in  the  wrong,  and 
I  am  old  enough  to  remember  that  their  rebellion  jeopardized 
the  interest  on  the  Egyptian  bonds."  Wiping  his  forehead, 
he  said,  dramatically :  "My  own  father  lost  £240." 

"It's  a  pity  he  didn't  lose  you,"  retorted  the  Marchesa; 
"and  if  you  think  this  is  going  to  be  your  house,  you're  a 
bigger  fool  than  I  took  you  for.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  we're  not 
talking  politics,  as  you  call  your  own  wretched,  sordid, 
money-grubbing  interests.  .  .  .  We  are  talking  about  a  great 
poet  who  is  dead,  David  Byron-Quinn."  Adam  pricked  his 
ears,  all  attention  now,  and  so  did  everyone ;  for,  as  even 
Mrs.  Burns  admitted  afterwards,  the  Marchesa  was  making 
the  success  of  the  afternoon.  "David  Byron-Quinn  was 
killed  before  the  Celtic  Twilight  commenced,  and  so  he  never 


VIEWS  DIFFER  AND  FOG  RISES  349 

heard  of  Deirdre.  I'm  afraid  I'd  never  heard  of  her  myself 
at  that  time,  for  I  was  chiefly  interested  in  painting 
then.  .  .  .  All  of  you  know  my  portrait  of  Byron-Quinn 
at  Leinster  House,  and  most  of  you  know  that  he  was  my 
lover."  Here  two  ladies  and  Mr.  Leaper-Carahar  went  out, 
and  immediately  afterwards  several  more  ladies  came  in. 
The  Marchesa  took  no  notice  of  going  or  coming,  but  con- 
tinued, as  though  her  relations  with  the  late  baronet  could 
be  the  only  matter  of  interest  to  the  assembly :  "He  was  my 
lover,  and  I  think  I  may  say  that,  considering  I  was  so 
young  at  the  time,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  for  I 
don't  count  Paris,  I  loved  him  almost  as  much  as  he  loved 
me.  I  remember  the  first  night  we  met,  I  am  sorry  to  say 
it  was  at  a  Castle  ball.  .  .  .  The  Viceroy,  either  Earl 
Spencer  or  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  introduced  him  to 
me.  .  .  .  And  whatever  we  said  or  did  then  I  don't  know, 
but  the  next  day  we  went  to  a  rather  odd  sort  of  house,  I 
thought  it  odd  at  the  time,  on  the  other  side  of  the  town, 
and  he  kissed  me — oh !  so  passionately — I  shall  never  forget 
it  as  long  as  I  live." 

As  she  paused  impressively,  Mrs.  Burns  was  heard  to 
say  into  the  ear-trumpet  of  the  old  gentleman :  "I  told  you 
the  Marchesa  would  make  a  good  speech.  That's  my 
father  she's  talking  about  now." 

The  Marchesa,  having  drawn  breath,  went  on:  "After 
that,  unfortunately,  he  had  to  go  away  to  Africa  for  quite  a 
long  time  ...  I  think  it  was  either  the  Ashanti  War,  that 
thing  of  Wolseley's,  you  know,  or  he  may  just  have  had  to 
shoot  elephants :  anyhow,  while  he  was  away,  I  had  a  baby." 
Here  Adam  caught  Old  Comet's  eye,  and  they  both  blushed. 
The  Marchesa  continued :  "A  dear  little  baby,  the  very  image 
of  him,  so  I  wanted  to  keep  it,  but  my  mother,  Lady  Derry- 
down,  was  extremely  puritanical,  and  threatened  to  stop 
my  allowance  if  I  didn't  get  rid  of  it,  and,  as  I  really  could 
not  live  by  painting,  and  being  very  young  in  those  days,  I 


350  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

saw  no  way  out  of  it  but  to  give  it  to  my  charwoman  at 
the  studio  I  had  in  Brunswick  Street.  She  carelessly  forgot 
it  behind  her  getting  out  of  a  tram,  and  didn't  tell  me  about 
it  at  the  time,  for  fear  I'd  be  annoyed  and  stop  the  money 
I  gave  her  for  its  keep.  Even  among  the  humbler  classes 
there  are  women  who  are  quite  unscrupulous;  I  should 
never  have  suspected  that  anything  happened  if,  when 
David,  Sir  David  Byron-Quinn,  that  is,  came  back  from 
Africa,  he  hadn't  wanted  to  see  it.  ...  Of  course,  when 
I  gave  it  to  the  charwoman,  I  often  wondered  what  she 
would  do  with  it,  but  I  was  so  fond  of  the  child  I  really 
could  not  bring  myself  to  talk  about  it.  Of  course,  when 
he  came  back,  he  did  not  know  at  the  time  that  I'd  had  a 
child,  and  he  made  me  forget  about  everything  except  him- 
self;  the  odd  thing  was  he  had  got  it  into  his  head  that  he 
would  like  to  have  a  child  by  me,  but,  somehow,  it  never 
came  off,  and  in  the  end  he  left  me  for  another  woman ; 
then  I  told  him  about  the  child  we  had,  but  when  he  found 
that  it  had  been  lost  he  lost  his  temper  too,  and  we  had 
quite  a  painful  interview,  after  which  he  went  out  on  the 
expedition  to  save  Gordon  after  he  was  dead,  and  he  was 
killed  too.  The  whole  thing  was  terribly  sad,  and  I've  often 
wondered  what  became  of  the  child.  When  I  first  met 
Stephen  Macarthy  I  thought  perhaps  he  might  be  my  son, 
but  I  don't  think  so  now.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  I'm  quite  sure  his 
poetry  will  last  for  ever,  particularly  'The  Dead  Lover,' 
which  Barbara  Burns  has  set  quite  nicely,  and  I'm  quite 
convinced  that  if  he  had  known  about  Deirdre  he  would 
have  written  a  better  play  about  her  than  anyone  else.  For 
Deirdre  is  the  perfect  love-story,  and  all  the  women  who 
knew  Byron-Quinn  were  agreed  that  he  was  the  perfect 
lover.  .  .  .  Not  even  Lady  Bland  would  say  that  of  Mr. 
Tinkler." 

"I  have  heard  her  say  it,"  gasped  Mr.  Tinkler  indignantly. 


VIEWS  DIFFER  AND  FOG  RISES  351 

"The  Marchesa  reminds  me  of  George  Moore,"  said  Mr. 
Pirn  in  a  stage-whisper. 

Mr.  Tinkler  rose  to  stutter:  "I  mean  the  lover  of  her 
soul." 

"Blank  to  blank,"  snapped  the  Marchesa.  "Anyhow, 
there's  never  been  a  poet  in  Ireland  to  compare  with  David 
Byron-Quinn  since  he  died,  nor  such  a  man  as  he  .  .  ." 
Her  eyes  wandered :  "I've  never  been  the  same  woman 
since.  ...  I  don't  care  who  knows" — her  voice  faltered, 
and  she  laid  her  hand  on  Adam's  shoulder — "I  sometimes 
think  that  we  may  find  such  a  poet  in" — her  tongue  stood 
still  in  her  mouth,  for  Mr.  O'Toole  was  trying  to  speak 
to  her. 

Adam  heard  him  say :  "Look  here,  this  can't  go  on.  That's 
not  the  way  for  a  lady  of  your  rank  to  be  talking  before 
these  people."  She  looked  from  him  to  Adam,  and  sud- 
denly collapsed.  Adam  helped  to  support  her  until  Mr. 
Macarthy  relieved  him,  saying:  "She  wants  air;  you'd  bet- 
ter go." 

Dazedly  he  made  his  way  into  the  hall,  where  he  was 
joined  by  Calvinia  Macfie. 

"What  a  hysterical  old  frump  the  Marchesa  is,"  said  Cal- 
vinia. "I'd  be  sorry  for  myself  if  I  was  as  vain  as  that. 
You'd  think  she  was  Deirdre  herself  instead  of  a  tipsy  old 
rag-bag." 

"I  can't  help  thinking  she  was  like  Deirdre  once,"  Adam 
protested :  "I've  seen  photographs  in  which  she  looked  quite 
charming." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  her  look  charming  herself?"  re- 
turned Calvinia.  "I  dare  say  that  Leaper-Carahar  looked 
charming  as  a  baby,  or  his  mother  thought  so.  It  isn't  what 
you  were  that  matters,  nor  what  you  will  be,  but  what 
you  are." 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  Adam  admitted  ruefully. 


352  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"Of  course  I'm  right,"  Calvinia  answered,  with  a  snap  of 
her  strong  jaws ;  "I'm  going  home.  Fitzwilliam  Square.  .  .  . 
If  you're  going  that  way,  you  may  as  well  come  too." 
Silently,  Adam  took  his  hat  and  followed  her :  and,  even  as, 
ten  years  ago,  Lady  Bland  led  him  eastward  from  Stephen's 
Green  to  her  house  in  Fitzwilliam  Square,  so  now  did  Miss 
Macfie  lead  him  westward  from  Waterloo  Road  to  the  house 
next  door  to  Lady  Bland.  But  how  different  his  entry ;  for 
Calvinia  led  him  straight  to  the  drawing-room  and  settled 
him  with  her  own  hand  in  the  most  comfortable  chair.  Then 
she  lit  a  cigarette,  passed  it  on  to  him,  and  lit  another  for 
herself. 

Adam  asked  politely :  "Is  your  mother  out  ?" 

Calvinia  nodded  at  him  through  the  smoke  of  her  cigar- 
ette :  "Playing  bridge ;  she's  always  out  playing  bridge.  .  .  . 
Everyone's  out  to-day,  and  will  be  for  an  hour  at  least." 
She  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  Adam's  chair,  adding  gruffly : 
"Anything  else  you  want  to  know?" 

Adam  wondered  whether  she  really  meant  to  have  a  cross 
tone  in  her  voice.  If  so,  why  did  she  take  up  this  friendly 
attitude?  .  .  .  She  was  a  perplexing  creature,  this  gaunt 
woman  with  her  half  repellent  attractiveness.  He  counted 
up  the  months  since  she  had  frightened  him  to  panic  that 
first  day  on  the  Dublin  Hills.  He  never  could  make  out 
whether  she  recognized  him  or  not;  since  then  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  think  her  the  most  stuck-up  baggage  he  had 
ever  met,  yet  at  this  moment  she  was  treating  him  as  if  they 
were  brother  and  sister.  .  .  .  That  was  a  queer  trick  with 
the  cigarette :  it  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  say  he  didn't 
smoke.  .  .  .  She  hadn't  asked  him,  but  just  lit  the  thing,  as 
if  she  were  going  to  smoke  it  herself,  and  then  changed  her 
mind  and  passed  it  from  her  mouth  to  his.  .  .  .  She  had 
rather  a  handsome  mouth,  largish,  but  very  firm  and  proud. 
Her  behavior  to  him  was,  perhaps,  firm,  but  there  was  no 
pride  in  it.  Certainly  she  meant  to  be  affable,  or  she  would 


VIEWS  DIFFER  AND  FOG  RISES  353 

not  have  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  so  close  that  he 
could  feel  her  bosom,  what  there  was  of  it,  rise  and  fall,  and 
hear  her  heart  beat,  quicker  than  he  believed  to  indicate  a 
normal  state  of  health. 

Her  hand,  with  unexpected  gentleness,  ruffled  the  hair  at 
the  back  of  his  head  from  the  collar  upwards,  as  she  asked 
in  a  voice  hardly  to  be  recognized:  "What  are  you  think- 
ing of?" 

"I'm  listening  to  the  music,"  answered  Adam  readily. 
And,  in  fact,  he  was  conscious,  among  other  things,  of  an 
harmonium  wheezing  mechanically  at  Lady  Eland's  side  of 
the  wall,  and  children's  voices  wailing  obstinately : 

"I  know  that  Jesus  loves  me, 
I  know  that  Jesus  loves  me, 
I  know  that  Jesus  loves  me : 
The  Bible  tells  me  so." 

Just  as  in  the  past  he  would  shout  for  an  hour  at  a  time : 

"I'll  be  true  to  Jesus  Christ, 
And  faithful  unto  death." 

And  he  had  still  a  vague  feeling  that  the  Jesus  of  the 
slums  and  Father  Innocent  was  the  only  true,  genuine,  orig- 
inal article;  while  he  of  Fitzwilliam  Square  and  Lady 
Bland  was  an  impostor  retained  in  the  service  of  the 
Pharisees,  whose  real  worship  was  at  the  shrine  of  Mammon. 

"Do  you  call  that  music  ?"  Calvinia  demanded.  "That  dis- 
gusting noise  next  door?" 

"What  would  you  call  it  ?"  Adam  asked. 

"What  I  have  called  it,"  she  repeated,  "a  disgusting  noise. 
How  could  you  listen  to  it  when  I  am  talking  to  you?" 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  Adam  said  humbly,  and  was  dismayed 
to  hear  himself  volunteer:  "I  knew  a  man  once "  he 


354  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

paused;  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  not  speak  of 
Father  Innocent  to  Calvinia. 

"Well?"  Calvinia  asked,  as  she  marked  his  distraught 
manner,  "What  about  it  ?  I've  known  a  man  or  two  myself." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  really/'  said  Adam. 

Calvinia  more  or  less  playfully  pinched  his  ear.  "Come, 
tell  me  about  your  man,"  she  commanded. 

Adam  found  it  strangely  difficult  to  control  his  mind  with 
Miss  Macfie  sitting  so  very  close  beside  him.  He  rather 
wished  that  she  gave  him  a  little  more  room :  he  was  almost 
stifled.  He  was  thinking  of  this  rather  than  of  what  he 
was  confessing  to  her:  "He  only  said  that  Lady  Bland 
was  the  worst  woman  in  Dublin." 

Calvinia,  faintly  sniggering,  asked,  in  a  bored  voice :  "Did 
he  mean  the  dowdiest,  or  was  it  some  sort  of  a  joke?" 

"It  was  no  joke,"  Adam  assured  her;  "he  wasn't  given 
to  making  jokes  about  women.  .  .  .  He  was  a  priest." 

"Oh,  a  priest,"  she  laughed  contemptuously.  "I  suppose 
someone  had  told  him  that  she  misbehaved  herself  with 
Albert  Tinkler." 

Adam  reddened  under  her  satirical  questioning  and,  all 
unthinking,  said :  "You  wouldn't  tell  me  that  a  lady  living  in 
Fitzwilliam  Square  would  go  and  do  a  thing  like  that?" 

"A  thing  like  what?"  asked  Calvinia,  still  laughing:  but, 
as  Adam's  eyes  fled  from  hers,  the  speed  of  her  voice  quick- 
ened and  her  laughter  died  down  to  a  mocking  undertone: 
"Do  you  mean  that  Lady  Bland  Avouldn't  sit  on  the  arm  of 
Albert  Tinkler's  chair,  as  I'm  sitting  on  the  arm  of  yours, 
rumpling  Albert  Tinkler's  hair  as  I've  been  rumpling 
yours  .  .  .  ?  D'you  mean  that  a  lady  wouldn't  do  what  I'm 
doing  now,"  and  she  thrust  down  her  savage  mouth  and 
bit  his  ear. 

Adam  felt  himself  unpleasantly  on  fire,  as  though  Miss 
Macfie's  teeth  had  set  light  to  his  ear  and  the  conflagration 
was  spreading.  He  had  no  will  to  fan  the  flame,  if  he 


VIEWS  DIFFER  AND  FOG  RISES  355 

lacked  the  strength  of  mind  to  stamp  it  out.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  sorry  that  he  had  come  to  Calvinia's  house, 
and  yet  he  could  not  wish  himself  away. 

Suddenly  her  hands  caught  his  jaw  in  a  firm  grip,  so 
that  he  could  not  but  look  her  in  the  face.  "Answer  my 
question,"  she  hissed  or  growled,  he  doubted  which  tone  she 
used :  "Do  you  think  I'm  doing  what  a  lady  ought  not 
to  do?" 

Adam's  fatal  love  of  the  truth,  inculcated  by  Mr.  Mac- 
arthy  perhaps  even  more  persistently  than  by  Father  Inno- 
cent, paralyzed  his  tongue,  and  he  stuttered :  "I  wouldn't  go 
so  far  as  to  say  that." 

Instantly  the  face  looking  into  his  grew,  he  thought,  old 
and  horrible:  the  eyes  that  held  his  eyes  turned  to  a  wild 
cat's,  and  the  thin  hand  stopped  half-way  in  a  caress  to 
harden  into  a  fist  that  struck  him,  forcibly  as  might  a  spent 
bullet,  on  the  cheek-bone. 

"You  contemptible  fool !"  she  snarled :  and  as  Adam  gazed 
wonderingly  at  her  and  stammered  out  a  broken  word  of 
question,  she  cut  him  short,  crying :  "Little  imbecile,  be  off." 

Then  Adam,  seeing  her  prepared  to  strike  viciously  at 
him  again,  plunged  from  his  place  beside  her  and,  terrified 
in  body  and  soul,  found  himself  whirling  out  of  the  room 
and  downstairs  to  the  hall,  where  he  strove  with  eyes  blind 
from  pain  to  discover  the  means  to  open  the  door.  He  was 
too  bewildered  to  perceive  that,  thanks  to  the  foresight  of 
Miss  Macfie,  it  needed  two  hands  at  once,  one  on  the  bolt 
of  each  lock,  to  open  it :  and  at  last  Calvinia,  having  watched 
him  for  a  little  while  with  malicious  eyes  from  the  staircase, 
had  to  come  to  his  aid,  lest  his  clumsiness  should  betray 
them  both.  With  a  pressure  of  her  lips,  oddly  reminding 
him  of  Father  Tudor,  she  beat  his  hand  from  the  door  with 
her  clenched,  ringed  fingers  on  his  knuckles:  "Imbecile," 
she  said  again:  "Have  you  never  been  in  a  decent  house 
before?" 


356  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

He  did  not  answer,  shrinking  from  her  that  he  might 
snatch  his  hat  and  stick  from  the  corner  where  he  had 
dropped  them  when  struggling  with  the  latches.  Then  he 
sprang  out  and  down  the  steps,  leaving  the  door  open  behind 
him.  ...  It  closed  with  a  bang,  and  there  followed  silence 
in  Fitzwilliam  Square.  But  that  quietude  was  broken  once 
again  as  he  hastened  away  into  a  gathering  mist,  broken  by 
the  wheezing  of  the  harmonium  at  Lady  Eland's  and  the 
piping  of  weary,  desperate  little  voices  singing,  with  their 
eyes  fixed,  no  doubt,  on  the  photograph  Adam  had  seen  in 
the  back  room  of  the  clergyman  who  suffered  little  children 
to  suffer  coming  unto  him : 

"Jesus  loves  me:  this  I  know, 
For  the  Bible  tells  me  so; 
Little  ones  to  Him  belong: 
They  are  weak,  but  He  is  strong. 
Yes,  Jesus  loves  me, 
Yes,  Jesus  loves  me, 
Yes,  Jesus  loves  me: 
The  Bible  tells  me  so." 

The  words  trailed  after  him  mockingly  through  the  mist 
that  was  rising  from  the  vegetation  in  the  square,  to  meet 
another  heavier  cloud  of  fog  creeping  in  from  the  sea  to 
swallow  Dublin  in  the  coming  night.  No  star  shone  in  the 
heavens,  and  no  bell  rang. 


CHAPTER  XL 
THE  WATERS  THAT  DROWNED  FAN  TWEEDY 

TURNING  his  back  on  Fitzwilliam  Square,  and  breaking  his 
way  through  the  thickening  mist,  Adam  felt  himself  sunk 
again  in  the  misery  of  his  childhood :  that  misery  which  sees 
no  meaning  whatever  in  the  cruelty  of  life.  The  physical 
pain  and  shock  he  suffered  was  not  little;  for  he  felt  his 
bruised  left  eye  swelling  so  that  he  could  not  use  it:  but 
the  extraordinary  indignity  of  what  he  had  suffered  chiefly 
impressed  him.  He  had  not  gone  to  Calvinia's  house  to 
please  himself,  but  only  because  he  had  felt  it  discourteous 
to  refuse :  and  surely  he  had  said  nothing,  done  nothing, 
there  which  could  offend  the  most  difficult  woman :  his  atti- 
tude had  been  purely  passive  and  compliant.  Yet,  she  had 
flung  herself  upon  him  in  such  a  rage  as  he  had  seen  no 
woman  but  his  mother  give  way  to,  and  had  beaten  him  as 
none  but  his  mother  had  ever  beaten  him.  He  had  long 
regarded  Miss  Macfie  as  eccentric,  and  he  had  heard  stories 
from  Mr.  Pirn  and  others  of  her  doing  queer  things :  but 
never  had  he  foreseen  the  possibility  of  her  doing  so  queer 
a  thing  as  to  kiss  him  first  and  the  next  instant  beat  him 
and  hoosh  him  out  of  the  house  like  a  pig  out  of  a  flower- 
garden. 

These  things  he  thought  as  he  scuttled  out  of  Fitzwilliam 
Square  and  on  towards  Stephen's  Green  through  the  dark- 
ening mist :  the  road  he  had  taken  leaving  Lady  Eland's  ten 
years  before:  but  he  did  not  think  them  rationally  and  in 
lucid  sequence :  it  seemed  rather  that  all  the  years  of  his 
life,  near  seventeen  now,  had  been  knocked  into  one  incom- 
prehensible rigmarole  in  his  head:  he  was  not  sure  beyond 

357 


358  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

question  whether  it  was  his  mother  or  Miss  Macfie  who  had 
just  hit  him,  not  absolutely  sure  whether  his  mother  and 
Miss  Macfie  were  not,  in  some  mysterious  sense,  the  same 
person :  just  as  he  had  been  wondering  earlier  that  day,  as 
often  before,  whether  Caroline  Brady  and  Mr.  Leaper- 
Carahar's  boasted  bride  were  not  in  essentials  the  one  being. 
And  Josephine  O'Meagher  too,  in  that  ever  more  confusing 
fog  he  could  ask  himself,  had  she  nothing  in  common  with 
either  ?  .  .  .  Through  his  aching  brain  worked  the  thought : 
was  the  earth  peopled  yet  by  only  two  persons  ?  .  .  .  A  man 
and  a  woman  hidden  from  each  other  by  many  disguises. 

It  had  been  a  wonderful  day,  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
in  his  life,  and  at  moments  such  as  when  the  old  Marchesa 
opened  her  cobwebbed  soul,  careless,  as  a  gentlewoman 
should  be,  of  what  the  world  thought  of  her,  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  angel  of  life  singing  in  his  ear  a  song  for  him  alone 
which  in  time  he  would  learn  and  understand.  But  then 
came  the  crushing,  senseless  experience  with  crazy  Calvinia, 
which  dissipated  in  a  muddy  torrent  that  crystal  stream 
percolating  so  deliciously  into  his  consciousness.  The 
thought  of  her  made  him  avoid  Stephen's  Green  and  turn 
down  Merrion  Street.  He  could  never  go  near  the  Club 
again,  where  he  must  meet  the  person  who  had  put  upon  him 
such  brutal  insult.  .  .  .  Perhaps  by  now  she  had  concocted 
some  story  about  the  whole  adventure,  in  which  he  would 
figure  as  a  brutal  little  cad  and  she  as  a  lady  of  spirited 
virtue.  And  here  his  sense  of  humor  came  to  the  rescue, 
and  as  he  bore  round  into  Westland  Row,  where  the  fog 
lay  heavier  than  in  Merrion  Square,  he  found  himself  smil- 
ing. After  all,  though  his  experience  had  been  damnable,  it 
had  also  been  ludicrous,  and  it  was  the  ludicrous  side  of  it 
which  everyone  would  see. 

This  reflection  was  not,  however,  very  comforting  to  vain 
youth :  the  fall  from  the  exaltation  of  seeing  Barbara  as 
Deirdre  and  himself  as  Naisi  was  too  sudden.  Self-satis- 


THE  WATERS  THAT  DROWNED  359 

faction  could  not  quickly  recover  from  an  assault  at  the 
hands  of  Miss  Macfie.  Most  detestable  of  all  women  was 
Miss  Macfie.  Whom  did  he  know  who  was  most  unlike 
her?  To  her  he  would  go  and  pour  out  his  heart  and  devote 
his  years  of  promise.  .  .  .  Was  it  Barbara  ?  .  .  .  No,  surely 
not.  There  was  even  in  her  something  of  that  vulgar  world- 
liness  which,  colored  with  sensuality,  was  almost  the  whole 
soul  of  Calvinia.  .  .  .  Who,  then  .  .  .  ?  The  railway  line 
crossing  the  Row  boomed  an  answer  as  the  yellow  lights  of 
an  invisible  train  passed  over  it :  a  train  that  in  twenty 
minutes'  time,  despite  the  fog,  would  be  reaching  Sandycove. 
The  woman  he  knew  who  was  least  like  Calvinia  was 
Josephine  O'Meagher :  she,  and  she  only,  had  never  been  to 
him  otherwise  than  tender  and  receptive.  True,  he  had  not 
seen  her  for  three  long  years :  but  he  knew  he  would  find 
her  still  the  same.  .  .  . 

His  hand  groped  in  his  pocket  for  money  as  he  thrilled 
to  the  magic  thought  that  he  could  fly  up  the  steps  to  the 
departure  platform  in  time  to  catch  the  train  which  had  just 
trundled  across  the  bridge,  and  whose  engine's  exhaust  steam 
filled  his  nostrils  as  she  panted  in  the  station  above.  Then, 
in  twenty  minutes  he  would  be  at  Sandycove,  and  another 
ten  would  find  him  at  Josephine's  feet.  It  was  now  all  but 
a  quarter  to  seven :  by  half  past,  what  a  change  would  have 
come  over  all  his  life.  .  .  .  As  in  a  dream,  he  hurried  to  the 
booking  office,  and  put  down  a  half  crown.  .  .  .  "Sandy- 
cove,  please." 

"Single  or  return?" 

"Anything." 

Then  the  booking-clerk's  voice,  aggrieved :  "Anything 
won't  do  for  me ;  you  must  say  what  you  want." 

For  the  life  of  him,  Adam  could  not  say  what  he  wanted. 
He  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  smell  of  steam  and  fog 
and  orange  peel ;  hear  nothing  but  the  voice  of  a  small  boy, 
invisible  in  the  mist,  calling:  Evening  Telegram,  and  then 


36o  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

much  whistling  and  shouting  above,  and  the  clerk's  voice: 
"You've  missed  the  train,  anyhow." 

Leaving  his  half  crown,  but  still  ticketless,  Adam  stormed 
up  the  long  flight  of  steps  to  the  platform.  In  front  of  him 
toiled  a  familiar  shape,  from  which  came  a  familiar  voice, 
grunting:  "Hold  on,  hold  on;  don't  let  her  go."  But,  as 
the  two  men  drew  neck  and  neck,  invisibility  above  called: 
"Sure,  I  can't  hold  her  any  longer,"  the  gates  slammed  to, 
and  then  the  engine  caught  up  the  train  and  jerked  it  away 
from  Adam's  eyes,  red  lights  and  all. 

As  Adam  flung  himself  in  childish  rage  against  the  barrier, 
his  companion  in  misfortune,  attaining  the  top,  swung  round 
to  him,  crying  in  a  thick  voice :  "There  now,  you  see.  That's 
the  way  the  Castle  encourages  these  railways  to  do  you 
down.  I  never  come  into  Westland  Row  that  I  don't  say  'To 
hell  with  Wicklow  and  Wexford'  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  as 
they  stared  each  other  in  the  face.  "Adam,  my  dear,  dear 
boy !  What  a  world  it  is.  I  was  thinking  of  you  as  I  came 
up  these  steps,  thinking  of  you  and  Josephine  pillow-fighting 
that  night  you'll  remember.  .  .  .  And  now  Josephine's 
gone." 

"Gone?"  cried  Adam,  "Josephine?  Was  she  in  the  train 
we've  missed  ?" 

Mr.  O'Meagher  shook  his  head.  "Ah,  not  at  all :  I  tell  ye, 
she's  gone :  she  was  received  this  morning.  .  .  .  That's  why 
I'm  in  the  state  you  see  me,  missing  the  bloody  train.  .  .  . 
After  all,  what  does  it  matter.  Damn  the  train.  .  .  .  Damn 
the  railway  company.  .  .  .  Damn  the  Little  Sisters  of  the 
Holy  Ghost.  They've  done  me  down  between  them." 

Adam's  heart  seemed  to  stand  still  within  him,  and  he 
shook.  "Is  Josephine  really  .  .  .  gone?"  he  asked. 

"Gone  she  is,  gone  for  ever,"  wailed  her  father,  and  then 
passed  from  sorrow  to  reproach.  "You  might  have  stopped 
her  if  you'd  held  on  tight.  But  you  wouldn't.  I  suppose  you 


THE  WATERS  THAT  DROWNED  361 

couldn't  be  bothered,  or  Macarthy  wouldn't  let  you.  Cynical 
devil — believes  in  nothing.  Won't  do  anything  to  help  any- 
one. My  wife's  afraid  of  him,  but  he  wouldn't  take  the 
trouble  to  terrify  her.  Said  it  was  my  business  to  knock 
the  fear  of  hell  into  her." 

"Did  he  say  that?"  asked  Adam,  surprised  even  now  at 
this  anecdote  of  his  guardian. 

"No,  of  course  he  didn't,"  returned  Mr.  O'Meagher. 
"He'd  never  use  that  sort  of  language.  But  that's  what  he 
meant,  in  his  cynical  English  way." 

"But,"  Adam  objected,  "he's  not  English." 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  Mr.  O'Meagher  responded. 
"When  I  say  he's  English  I  mean  he's  not  truly  Irish,  as  a 
Macarthy  ought  to  be.  But  they  were  all  the  same,  the 
Macarthys.  Wasn't  it  Teague  Macarthy  got  a  baronetcy,  or 
the  Order  of  the  Bath,  for  taking  off  his  hat  to  John  Lack- 
land, and  didn't  John  claw  the  beard  off  him  when  he  got 
him  in  chancery?" 

Adam  had  doubts  whether  this  particular  honor  already 
obtained  in  the  thirteenth  century,  but  he  knew  that  his 
companion,  when  sober,  was  the  better  historian,  so  he  did 
not  debate  the  point.  He  asked  whether  Mr.  O'Meagher 
proposed  to  pass  through  the  gates,  now  again  open,  and 
take  the  next  train  to  Kingstown,  whence  he  could  proceed 
by  tram  to  his  own  door. 

"I  will  not,"  declared  Mr.  O'Meagher ;  "I  was  after  taking 
the  one  that's  gone.  But,  now  that  I've  met  you,  why  would 
I  ever  want  to  go  home  again,  and  my  darling  girl  taken 
from  me  by  these  lousy  nuns?  Sick  and  sore  I  was  this 
morning  to  see  them  all  prancing  about  with  these  crows  of 
holy  confessors,  wasting  their  beauties  on  the  desert  air, 
and  letting  on  that  a  Jew  carpenter,  crucified  two  thousand 
years  ago,  was  the  only  man  worth  talking  about  in  the 
whole  wide  world.  I'd  bitter  words  with  me  wife  as  I  came 
away,  I  can  tell  ye." 


362  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

"What  did  you  say  to  her  ?"  Adam  asked ;  for  he,  too,  in 
his  raging  heart  cursed  her  for  a  fanatical  fool. 

"I  said  nothing  at  all,"  declared  Mr.  O'Meagher,  "and 
well  she  knows  what  I  meant  by  that.  Never  more,  it 
meant,  never  more.  But,  sure,  what  does  she  care,  with 
her  scapulars  and  sodality  medals  and  bits  of  the  true  what- 
you-may-call-it  ?  She'd  rather  sleep  with  an  Agnus  Dei  on 
her  breast  than  feel  my  kisses  falling  there."  He  seized 
Adam's  arm  and  projected  him  down  the  steps:  "I'm  not 
going  back  to-night  to  have  her  tell  me  that  it  was  old 
Jehovah  got  her  children  for  her,  and  not  me.  Come  over  to 
the  Grosvenor  and  have  a  drink." 

Adam's  experience  of  life  had  not  so  far  brought  him 
into  the  habit  of  drinking,  but  he  was  in  the  mood  to-night 
which  opens  a  youth  to  the  temptation  of  bad  ways ;  he  felt 
as  if  anything  might  happen  as  he  steered  his  tipsy  com- 
panion between  the  trams  that  made  the  way  dangerous  to 
the  Grosvenor. 

But  in  the  hotel  bar  Mr.  O'Meagher  steadied  himself,  and 
said,  as  though  his  brain  were  reasserting  itself :  "Now,  I'm 
going  to  drink  whisky,  for  there's  nothing  left  for  me  to  do 
at  my  age,  with  my  daughter  stolen  from  me,  but  to  go  to 
the  dogs.  But  there's  no  sense  in  your  doing  it.  So  I'll 
just  be  giving  you  coffee,  or  beef-tea,  or  whatever's  your  tap 
when  you  and  that  Macarthy  fellow  are  on  the  spree  to- 
gether. .  .  .  He  believes  in  nothing,  does  that  Macarthy 
fellow,  neither  religion,  nor  patriotism,  nor  love,  nor  drink. 
And  I  often  wonder  how  he  lives  at  all  and  grows  fat  and 
prospers  on  it  while  better  men  go  to  hell,  like  me." 

Adam  shook  off  his  grasp  that  he  might  turn  towards  him, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face,  to  say  firmly :  "Mr.  Macarthy's 
the  best  man  I  know." 

Not  entirely  to  his  surprise,  Mr.  O'Meagher's  hand  sought 
his.  "Don't  mind  what  I'm  saying  in  my  rage,  Adam.  I 
know  he  is,  at  all  events  where  young  people  are  concerned. 


THE  WATERS  THAT  DROWNED  363 

If  he'd  been  Josephine's  father  ..."  He  drowned  his  sor- 
row in  whisky  and  sank  on  to  a  chair,  where  he  sat  a  long 
time  silent.  Adam  thought  he  was  going  to  sleep,  when  he 
went  on  again,  almost  mechanically :  "I've  said  to  you  more 
than  I  should  have  said  about  my  poor  wife.  I  suppose  it's 
her  misfortune  and  not  her  fault.  You  couldn't  expect  poor 
Innocent's  sister  to  be  quite  sane.  But  Josephine's  my  blood 
as  well  as  hers,  and  Josephine's  temperament's  more  mine 
than  hers,  I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it ;  and  I  tell  you  Josephine's 
thinking  to-night,  or,  if  not  to-night,  to-morrow  night,  and 
if  not  that,  some  night,  then,  before  long.  .  .  .  Before  those 
succubines  suck  her  dry,  that  is.  ...  She'll  be  waking  in 
the  night  to  cry,  'Why  am  I  dreaming  about  Jesus  here  when 
I  might  be  pillow-fighting  with  Adam  Macfadden,  as  I  used 
to  do  when  I  was  young.  .  .  .*  What's  the  matter  lad  ?" 

When  Mr.  O'Meagher  commenced  this  speech,  Ada'm  had 
been  sitting  on  his  high  chair  by  the  bar,  sipping  a  cup  of 
bovril,  and  his  mind  divided  between  care  that  he  should  not 
scald  himself  with  too  great  a  gulp  of  the  hot  liquor,  and 
the  thought  that  in  the  scent  of  it  was  some  comfort  for 
his  triple  heartache  of  the  day:  Barbara's  marriage,  Cal- 
vinia's  insulting  battery,  and,  as  it  seemed  now,  acutest  pain 
of  all,  this  news  of  Josephine.  Why  was  it  that  the  sight 
of  the  train  lights  crossing  the  bridge  at  Westland  Row  had 
flashed  up  her  image  and  not  that  of  Caroline  Brady,  who 
had  died  for  him?  There  was  the  real  love  of  his  young  life : 
the  only  one  that  had  known  a  beginning  and  a  middle  and 
an  end.  Yet  Caroline,  seen  a  few  months  since,  was  very 
dead  to-night,  and  Josephine,  not  seen  for  years,  preternat- 
urally  alive.  Was  it  her  father's  presence  beside  him  that 
recalled  her?  ...  It  had  never  done  so  before :  it  had  never 
seemed  to  him  that  Josephine,  physically,  resembled  her 
father.  Yet,  looking  at  him  to-night,  he  thought  it  possible 
there  might  be  some  resemblance  there:  not  in  form  or 
feature,  but  in  a  certain  expression  that  told  of  a  passionate 


364  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

desire  to  live,  to  let  live,  and  to  make  live,  the  absence  of 
which  first  and  third  qualities  was  almost  as  conspicuous  in 
the  countenance  of  Mrs.  O'Meagher  as  in  that  of  her 
brother. 

From  the  loins  of  that  pale  young  solicitor  of  Brunswick 
Street  who  had  sung  "Let  me  like  a  soldier  fall,"  and  died 
untimely  of  sedentary  death,  no  living  seed  had  sprung.  He 
had  given  his  children  some  beauty  of  form  and  gentleness 
of  nature,  which  the  daughter  had  passed  on  to  her  daughter 
and  two  sons :  but  the  blood  that  flowed  through  their  veins 
and  had  warmed  to  Adam's  kisses  on  Josephine's  cheeks 
and  lips  was,  thought  Adam,  the  blood  of  the  man  who  sat 
opposite  to  him  now,  poisoning  that  blood  with  alcohol,  since 
there  was  no  more  use  for  its  pulsing  on  the  earth :  and  he 
was  thinking  that  what  of  it  ran  in  his  daughter's  arteries 
would  be  to  her  only  a  curse  in  the  prison  life  to  which  her 
own  mother  had  inspired  her  to  condemn  herself. 

It  almost  seemed  to  Adam  that  the  spirit  of  Josephine  had 
entered  her  father  now  to  call  on  him  to  save  her  from  the 
life  that  was  living  death :  that,  perhaps,  the  Josephine  that 
knelt  that  moment  by  the  little  bed  in  her  cell  at  Bray,  was 
praying  already  that,  if  only  in  her  dreams  at  night,  the 
little  Adam  she  had  kissed  in  love  might  come  to  her  for 
kisses  once  again.  For,  if  she  might  not  know  love  even  in 
her  dream,  then  the  bitterness  of  death  was  already  come, 
never,  perhaps,  to  pass  away,  for  a  nun  with  a  double  mind. 

Into  these  thoughts  broke  Mr.  O'Meagher's  query  what 
was  the  matter  with  him.  Receiving  no  answer,  the  man 
steadied  himself  to  rise,  leaving  his  glass  half  empty  on  the 
counter.  "It's  near  nine  o'clock.  .  .  .  Time  for  young  fel- 
lows to  be  going  home.  .  .  .  Let  me  see,  now,  if  I  can't  get 
an  outside,  or  maybe  a  cab  would  be  better,  and  I'll  drop 
you  at  Mount  joy  Square  or  St.  George's,  and  then,  maybe, 
drive  back  here  myself  and  take  the  train  after  all.  .  .  . 
There'll  be  time  enough  for  that  after  I've  seen  you  safe  in 


THE  WATERS  THAT  DROWNED  365 

bed  and  that  old  devil  Macarthy  hearing  you  your  prayers 
backwards."  He  took  Adam's  arm  and  led  him  steadily 
to  the  door,  and  through  it  to  the  street. 

But  there  a  change  came  over  him  as  the  sea  of  fog  bathed 
them  both.  "It's  the  hell  of  a  night,  old  fellow,"  he  said. 
"Damn  railways  and  tramways  and  hackney  carriages.  .  .  . 
It's  the  hell  of  a  night  for  a  walk.  .  .  .  Let's  go  round  the 
town  before  we  turn  in."  He  swung  Adam  round  to  the 
right  and  into  Lincoln  Place.  "Oscar  Wilde  born  here,"  he 
said,  waving  his  stick  at  something  not  to  be  discerned  in  the 
fog.  "Used  to  be  Opto  .  .  .  Ortho  .  .  .  Ophthalmic  Hos- 
pital." He  added  gravely:  "Never  had  any  sympathy  with 
that  sort  of  thing,  and  then  he  burst  into  song: 

"The  girls  they  cry 
As  I  pass  by, 
Are  you  there,  Mo-ri-ar-i-ty  ?" 

These  seemed  the  only  words  he  could  recollect,  but  their 
frequent  repetition  kept  him  employed  so  far  as  the  corner 
of  Grafton  Street.  Adam,  saying  nothing,  trudged  beside 
him,  sunk  in  melancholy,  tempered  by  a  grim  amusement 
at  his  companion's  folly.  Could  Josephine  imagine  how  her 
father  would  celebrate  her  nuptials  with  the  church,  and,  if 
so,  could  she  think  herself  best  serving  God  by  dismissing 
him  into  outer  darkness? 

Thus  was  he  pondering  as  they  strolled  along  by  the  in- 
visible College  railings,  when  he  became  aware  that  his  com- 
panion's song  had  stilled,  and  he  was  talking  over  his 
shoulder  to  someone  veiled  in  the  mist.  "And  if  you  think 
I'm  the  man  to  do  a  thing  like  that,  my  dear,  you're  very 
much  mistaken.  .  .  ."  Then,  less  steadily:  "Sure,  I'm  no 
young  masher,  but  the  father  of  a  holy  nun.  .  .  ."  And  then, 
drunkenly :  "Damned  if  I  know  where  we  could  go.  .  .  ." 

Then  Adam's  blood  froze  to  the  answer  in  the  voice  from 


366  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

darkness  of  an  unseen  woman :  "I  can  tell  you  a  nice  place, 
love:  d'ye  know  O'Toole's  in  Pleasant  Street?" 

The  next  moment  Mr.  O'Meagher,  sobered,  was  clutch- 
ing at  Adam,  begging  him  to  stop,  and  Adam,  drunk  with 
shame,  tearing  himself  away:  to  run  in  panic  down  Grafton 
Street.  For  now  he  saw  himself  clearly  at  last  for  what  he 
was :  the  chick  of  obscene  birds,  gotten  upon  a  dunghill,  for 
all  that  strain  in  him  of  pride  that  would  war  down  heaven. 
He  was  conscious,  as  he  ran,  of  two  things :  within  him  a 
voice  saying  that  in  life  there  could  be  happiness  for  such 
as  he :  without,  the  siren  of  the  Bristol  boat  was  calling,  call- 
ing, calling  him  to  the  waters  that  drowned  Fan  Tweedy. 
Through  the  fog  he  ran  on  past  Trinity  College,  and, 
guided  by  the  great  lamps  beside  Moore's  statue,  turned  back 
towards  Brunswick  Street.  At  the  cross  roads  where  once 
stood  Lazar  Hill,  he  checked  a  moment,  doubtful  of  his  way : 
but  again  came  the  siren  calling  yet  three  times  to  the  waters 
that  drowned  Fan  Tweedy.  Choking,  he  rushed  forward 
down  Tara  Street,  slipped  on  some  filth  on  the  narrow  pave- 
ment, and  fell,  striking  his  head  on  the  curb.  But  in  a 
moment  he  was  up  again  and  rushing  forward.  He  could 
see  lights  on  the  river,  he  could  hear  the  creaking  of  a 
derrick,  and  a  confused  clatter  of  horses  and  wheels.  Then 
the  wood  of  Butt  Bridge  under  his  feet ;  the  feel  of  the  iron 
rails  to  his  hand.  He  clambered  over  on  to  the  wooden 
platform  on  which,  in  the  days  when  Sir  David  Byron- 
Quinn  still  lived,  the  bridge  swung  to  allow  sea-going  ships 
up-stream,  but  never  opened  since  Adam  had  known  them. 
.  .  .  Below  him  now  he  could  hear  the  lap  of  the  waters  that 
had  washed  the  woman  of  whom  his  father  had  asked  too 
much  out  of  the  world.  .  .  .  One  mighty  effort  of  will  to 
break  the  cord  of  life,  and,  as  the  Bristol  boat  sent  forth  her 
last  note  of  warning  that  she  was  about  to  clear  from  the 
quay,  Adam  sprang.  .  .  . 

This  was  the  end  of  all,  he  thought,  and  then  pitched  into 


THE  WATERS  THAT  DROWNED  367 

the  water  and  went  plunging  down;  for,  subconsciously,  he 
had  leaped  from  the  bridge  with  his  joined  hands  thrown 
forward,  in  the  attitude  of  a  diver,  and  he  suffered  no  hurt 
in  the  impact.  But  never  had  he  dived  so  deep  before,  and 
his  lungs  were  bursting  as  he  came  at  long  length  to  the 
surface,  and  drew  a  full  delirious  breath  of  life  across  the 
waters  of  that  unsavory  stream.  Aye,  even  the  fetid  air 
that  lay  nethermost  of  the  foggy  vapors  on  Anna  Liffey  was 
drawn  thirstily  into  his  young  body:  and,  with  the  nervous 
strokes  of  adolescence,  he  sought  to  cleave  a  path  back  to 
the  world  he  had  flung  from  him  in  disdain  a  moment  be- 
fore. For,  in  the  pulsings  of  his  heart  that  sped  between 
the  disappearance  of  his  head  beneath  the  waters  and  its 
emergence,  his  blindness  had  been  washed  from  his  eyes, 
and  he  saw  in  his  mind  his  guardian's  arms  stretched  out 
to  save  him.  If  only  he  could  regain  his  grip  on  life,  these 
arms  would  nurse  him  back,  without  question  or  reproof,  to 
self-respect  and  contentment ;  for,  although  his  grandfather, 
who  for  a  moment  of  joy  and  pride  had  created  misery  and 
shame  for  so  many  and  won  despair  for  himself,  had  damned 
life  as  a  miserable  folly,  his  guardian,  with  much  of  the 
same  blood  and  not  a  few  of  the  same  qualities,  had  taught 
him  a  more  generous  lesson  .  .  .  Had  claimed  him  for  the 
army  of  hope. 

Boldly  he  struck  out,  though  his  sodden  clothes  bore  him 
down,  hampering  his  arms  and  legs.  .  .  .  He  fancied  him- 
self swimming  through  a  nightmare,  a  nightmare  that  had 
commenced  in  Calvinia's  chair.  .  .  .  The  waters  that 
drowned  Fan  Tweedy,  his  father's  fancy  woman,  one  of  his 
father's  fancy  women :  perhaps  the  least  unfortunate,  were 
sucking  him  down,  were  singing  his  dirge  in  his  ears.  .  .  . 
He  felt  his  strength  oozing  out  of  him  under  the  fog.  .  .  . 
Yet,  he  did  not  mean  to  die  willingly ;  for  his  instinct,  wak- 
ened by  the  clutch  of  death  upon  his  throat,  proclaimed,  what 
vanity  only  could  deny,  that,  to  the  sound  of  mind  and  body, 


S68  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

life  was  good.  Though  his  father  was  a  pimp  and  his 
mother  no  better,  he  saw  now  they  were  but  poor  players, 
filling  the  parts  set  down  for  them  in  the  prompt  book  of 
the  Great  Comedian  who  crumbled  Thais  and  lovely  Roman 
Flora  to  sour-smelling  mold,  even  as  He  called  lilies  from 
the  soil  of  swine.  ...  If  the  world  were  a  joke,  what  of 
that?  It  was  a  thundering  good  one.  So  he  had  learnt 
to-day  from  the  one  person  who  would  not  suffer  him  to 
deceive  nor  be  deceived.  .  .  .  Now,  if  he  perished  in  this 
idle  fashion,  the  Comedian  would  say:  "So  your  sense  of 
humor  was  not  Mine :  you  will  not  condescend  to  jest  with 
me?"  .  .  .  Or,  maybe,  he  would  be  deemed  unworthy  even 
of  reproach,  and  would  just  drift  out  into  nothingness,  to 
dissolve  at  sea  like  a  drowned  beast.  .  .  .  Futilely  dead,  as 
futilely  as,  so  far,  he  had  lived.  .  .  . 

But  his  life  need  not  be  futile:  he  had  not  surrendered 
yet.  .  .  .  He  would  rather  even  bear  the  ridicule  of  crying 
for  help.  .  .  .  He  opened  his  mouth.  .  .  .  And  a  surge  of 
water  broke  over  him,  filling  his  mouth,  beariqg  him  down 
to  the  very  bed  of  the  stream,  while  a  strange  thunder,  like 
the  beat  of  a  giant's  heart,  rolled  through  the  water  into  his 
ears.  .  .  . 

He  thought  he  was  done,  surely,  now.  .  .  .  One  thought 
struggled  in  him  still :  he  would  not  have  his  guardian  think 
he  had  given  way.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  if  he  struggled  on,  his 
body  would  look  as  if  he  had  not  given  way.  .  .  .  They 
would  think  he  had  fallen  into  the  water  in  the  fog.  .  .  .  He 
opened  his  mouth  again  to  call.  .  .  .  The  beat  of  the  giant's 
heart  thundered  louder. 

And  then,  ages  after,  he  was  drifting  to  the  surface  again, 
hardly  conscious  of  his  own  share  in  the  cause  that  brought 
him  there.  .  .  .  But  alive  enough  to  recognize  the  weight  of 
something  dragging  across  his  face.  Blindly  he  snatched  at 
it,  fiercely  he  clung  to  it,  with  teeth  and  fingers  and  all  of 
him  that  he  could  bring  in  contact  with  it,  as  it  splashed 


THE  WATERS  THAT  DROWNED          369 

away  through  the  fog,  towards  lights  that  leaped  from  the 
gloom  into  sharper  definition,  till  the  counter  of  a  steamer 
loomed  overhead,  and  he  knew  the  thunder  for  the  beat  of 
her  propeller  as  she  thrashed  cautiously,  head  down-stream, 
into  the  fairway.  .  .  . 

Then  he  was  struck  by  something  as  he  was  heaved  into 
space  by  the  hawser  lifted  inboard.  .  .  .  Again  was  he 
struck,  and  again.  .  .  .  But  this  time  he  felt  himself  falling, 
falling,  battered,  but  not  yet  quite  senseless,  on  the 
deck.  .  .  .  And  then,  rough  voices,  rough  hands,  a  burning 
in  his  throat,  brandy  pouring  over  his  lips  and  chin  .  .  . 
Life  rushing  back  to  him  with  rude  and  maddening  vio- 
lence. .  .  . 

And  then  the  whole  world  reeling  tipsily  round  him.  .  .  . 
The  clang  of  her  plates,  as  the  Bristol  boat  rose  on  the 
cross  tide,  over  Dublin  bar,  the  roar  of  her  well-remembered 
siren  rumbling  away  into  the  fog,  and  the  thud  thud,  thud 
thud  of  her  engines  carrying  him  out  to  sea.  .  .  .  Wild 
dreams  .  .  .  Nothing  clear  but  the  vision  of  a  tombstone 
with  the  legend  of: 

CAROLINE, 

THE  FRIEND  OF  ADAM.  - 
R.I.P. 

and  a  voice  repeating  thunderously: 

"For  ever  wilt  thou  love  and  she  be  fair  .  .  ." 

At  last  wakefulness,  to  find  morning.  .  .  .  The  Bristol 
boat  hooting  her  way  slowly  through  the  fog.  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  mist  reverberated  the  crash  of  a  great  cannon. 
It  recurred  louder  and  louder  at  longish  but  regular  inter- 
vals. ...  A  hump-backed  battleship  swept  by  in  monstrous 
silhouette,  flaming  from  her  funnels  and  pounding  the  oily 


370  ADAM  AND  CAROLINE 

waters  into  billows  that  stormed  over  the  steamer's  lower 
decks  and  splashed  to  her  bridge. 

When  the  sun  burst  through  the  fog  she  was  no  longer 
to  be  seen.  .  .  .  But  cannon  could  still  be  heard. 

Cannon  could  be  heard  that  day  from  one  end  of  the  Old 
World  to  the  other.  The  sun  that  shone  on  Adam's  face 
lighted  to  mutual  slaughter  millions  of  men,  fighting  in  a 
scarcely  broken  line,  in  double,  treble,  and  quadruple  lines, 
fighting  in  air,  on  land,  on  sea,  groping  to  murder  one 
another  in  the  very  depths  below  the  sea,  righting  from  the 
heart  of  the  African  desert,  where  burnt  the  dust  of  Sir 
David  Byron-Quinn,  to  the  drenched  Irish  earth,  where 
moldered  the  form  of  that  thing  called  Caroline,  the  friend  of 
Adam.  Between  their  two  resting  places,  so  far  apart,  the 
world  they  had  known  ...  the  world  that  had  made  them 
what  they  were  .  .  .  was  digging  its  grave. 

Here  ends  the  story  of  "Adam  and  Caroline."  That  of 
"Adam  and  Barbara"  is  yet  to  be  told. 


£  SOUTHERN  REGIONAI.  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  033  260 


